Movie Pictorial (September 1915)

SEPTEMBER

1915

From a photograph by Carpenter, Los Angeles

i

FUTURE

FILM FEATURES

course
you fool,
there’s no
silver
mine on
your
property.

Lake systematically attacks the other man’s happiness

Slowly the poison of suspicion crept Into Whittier’s mind

THE WOMAN NEXT DOOR

PRODUCED BY

GEORGE KLEINE

Founded on OWEN DAVIS’

Celebrated Stage Success

In this production, Miss Fenwick has been given such a
splendid opportunity to display those powers which have
made her one of the greatest stage stars in America. Her
work in “THE WOMAN NEXT DOOR” is said to be one
of the rarest and most beautiful examples of character
portrayal in the annals of film plays.

The story is familiar to theater-goers, having been one
of the big Broadway successes of the past few years.
Jenny Gay, an actress, is the object of the mad infatuation
of Jack Lake, a promoter of worthless mines. This char-
acter becomes her nemesis and eventually by poisoning
the mind of her husband causes a divorce and drives her
to solitude in a New England village. Tom Grayson,
superintendent of a railroad construction gang in Mexico,
meets Lake and through a quarrel with some Greasers in
which Lake takes his part, becomes his debtor. When
Tom returns home Lake follows him and promptly recog-
nizes in the little Woman Next Door the object of his
affection. Tom and Jenny fall in love and Lake immediately
exposes Jenny as the actress whose divorce suit had been
one of the newspaper sensations of the year. From this
situation many tense and dramatic moments are evolved.

Lawson Butt as
Jack Lake

Irene Fenwick as
Jenny Gay

A mind poisoned
against Itself
brings about the
Inevitable result —
the divorce court
enters Into the
triangle, but out of
the maelstrom
arises a greater and
better love

rrrr

> WWWWWWWWWft 1

MOVIE PICTORIAL

THE SPOKEN WORD

By MARY RIDPATH-MANN

ILLUSTRATED BY MILDRED LYON

W HEN Haverly landed the plum the only
man on the staff who was surprised was
Haverly himself. Two months previously
old Bevan who had been editor of the
Sentinel for more than a quarter of a century had
been found dead in his chair. Like all the rest.,
Haverly had realized that some one must take his
place. That he himself would he the man never
occurred to him.

At the directors meeting, however, the choice had
been practically unanimous. Only one man had de-
murred and his doubts were based wholly upon
Daverly’s age, or rather upon his youth. He was
just thirty. Bevan had been sixty-five when he died.
Was there not danger in choosing a man so young?
His objections were overruled, however; in fact,
he was glad to have them overruled. He liked
Haverly. He acknowledged that he was an ideal
newspaper man. He had a brilliant record for
“scoops.” So the secretary was instructed to inform
Haverly of his election.

Boys flying kites haul in their white-
winged birds.

You can’t do that way when you’re
flying words.

Thoughts unexpressed will sometimes
fall back dead,

But God Himself can’t kill them when
they’re said.

— Carleton

That night as the latter sat at his desk
hastily throwing together a story of the aviation
races to fill half a column needed to make up
the page which must go immediately to press,
the secretary’s letter was handed him. He laid
it down unopened and went on writing. As
soon as his copy had been turned in he picked
it up and opened it.

For a moment he sat and simply stared at it.
Why on earth had they chosen him? There
was Thornton, the managing editor, as capable
a man as ever lived, and Caxton, the city
editor, each older both in years and length of
service than himself. And there was Kennedy
and Haines and Mathews. He paused a moment
and his teeth came together like a steel trap.
He despised Mathews. And he could not tell
why, unless — unless it was because of

'T'HE stern lines of his face relaxed and the
-l brilliant eyes grew dreamy over the vision
which passed before them. Helen Holden was
the Sentinel’s star reporter. And she was
slender and graceful and exquisitely feminine.
There was nothing about her of the striding,
masculine type affected by so many newspaper
women. Her eyes were dark, appealing, and
full of meaning. Instinctively you liked the
girl behind them. There was in their expres-
sion something which suggested some far-off
oriental ancestry. Yet they were so openly, so
frankly honest, and as Thornton had one day
put it, “Lord! How they keep you guessing!”
The whole force regarded her as the mascot.
Where the others on the staff failed she suc-
ceeded every time and there was not a man
among them but was willing to acknowledge
that her success was due in no small measure
to her own unconscious charm. Outside the
office Haverly knew absolutely nothing of her
life. But he had occasionally looked up from
his work to see Mathews talking to her in a
way which evidently annoyed her and which made
his blood boil. He longed to punch his head.

Haverly himself had had little time for the girls.
Not that he did not care for their society. He did.
As for children, he adored them. He couldn’t get
past a bunch of ragged “newsies” on the corner
without stopping to talk to them to save his life,
and many a maid and nurse girl had looked admir-
ingly after the tall figure of a young man who had
stopped to play a moment with their little charges
in the park. But if, like most men, he cherished
a secret longing for a home, wife and children of
his own he kept it strictly to himself and all the
devotion of a finely-attuned affectionate soul which
under other circumstances might have found its out-
let through other channels he lavished upon the
little mother who had borne him — who had toiled
and suffered and sacrificed that he might have his
chance to “make good” in life

He put the letter in his pocket, got his hat and
coat, closed his desk and turned to go. As he passed

through the outer office the other members of the
staff were just preparing to leave also. He spoke
to Thornton who came over to him. It was with
hesitation that Haverly took the letter from his
pocket again and handed it to him, for a thought
so weighty had suddenly come to him that something
came up in his throat and almost choked him. This
new arrangement might alter the hitherto close and
highly valued friendship of his comrades. But this
was a doubt soon to be dispelled. Thornton let out
a whoop which brought the whole force around him
in a moment. What “good fellows” they were!
They shook his hand heartily, slapped his broad
shoulders and wondered if they would ever dare
call him Jack again! They were glad, unfeignedly
glad, of his success. The fact that he had been pro-
moted over all their heads mattered not a whit.
They congratulated him sincerely — all except
Mathews. .

“Fellows,” he stumbled, “I don’t know how it
happened.”

3

MOVIE PICTORIAL

“We do!” they exclaimed in excited chorus.
"We knew it! You’re too modest, old man. Any-
way, Jack, you can count on us!”

Haverly’s fine face grew grave. Then he spoke
soberly and with deep feeling.

“That’s just what I want to do, fellows — count on
you! Without your help, your sympathy and sup-
port, I’ll — I’ll fail. With them — well, I’ll keep the
old paper up to the top notch where she’s always
been or die trying!”

Again they gathered around him, voicing their
loyalty and interest — all but Mathews. At the close
of Haverly’s words he had slipped away quietly and
the expression on his face was not good to see.
The rest would have lingered longer, doubtless, but
for the warning cry of the elevator man.

“Last trip.”

In a bunch they made a dash for the car and a
moment later it deposited them on the ground floor.

T)Y THE time Haverly reached home that night
-U he had made some very definite plans and some
not quite so definite. No more third-story apartments
with little light, poor air, long flights of stairs and
noisy neighbors! The mother should have a pretty
cottage at the edge of town, not too far from the
office, with sunshine on all four sides of it, with
grass and trees and a flower garden and the other
things that women love when the freshness of their
youth has departed. Later, perhaps, a little electric,
which she could run herself, and then, after a while,

perhaps, when things got easier . Again his

heart warmed as the vision of a slender girl with
dark, wonderful eyes came vividly to his mind.

Not until he reached home did he realize how late
it was. As he dropped off of the car at the corner
he heard the chimes on St. James ring one o’clock.
He slipped noiselessly into the house, and as he
passed the dining-room, saw one more evidence of
his mother’s loving thought. On the table he found
a plate of sandwiches, the kind he liked best, some
cake, fruit, and a thermos bottle of piping hot coffee.
He had eaten nothing since shortly after noon — a
fact he had quite forgotten but which lent an extra
savor to the night lunch. When he had finished he
rose and stood for a moment looking thoughtfully
at the door of his mother’s room. Then he opened
it softly and went in.

It was a small room, the kind in which the
furniture, however diminutive, always looks too
large. The bed stood in one corner and a flood
of moonlight came through the open window bring-
ing into bold relief the quiet figure and placid face
of the sleeper. He stood for a moment looking
down at her tenderly. Then his presence seemed to
rouse her. She sat up quickly as if in fear.

“Jack!” she cried. Then immediately, “ is

anything the matter, dear?”

He sat down on the edge of the bed and gathered
her into his arms.

“Not a thing, mother mine. I just wanted to talk
and couldn’t wait till morning. In fact, I’ve had
some dandy good luck, dearest. Your little big boy
is so happy he doesn’t know whether he’s thirty or
three!”

He settled her back on the pillows, then told
her the good news, not forgetting to include the
satisfaction which his selection had given the men
with whom he worked. For a while he rattled on
about his plans and his hopes. But he broke off
suddenly when he observed that the figure beside
him was shaken with sobs.

He looked at her helplessly and in amazement.
In all his life he could not remember ever having
seen his mother cry.

“Don’t, dearest!” he begged. “Why — what are
you crying about?”

“Oh, boy,” she said, “ if only you could know

how I’ve hoped and planned and dreamed and
prayed that a chance like this might come to you!
It seems too good to be true.”

“Mother mine,” he answered softly, “It was just
because I do know that I couldn’t wait till morning
to tell you. Don’t cry any more. Please don’t.
It — it hurts! And I guess it wouldn’t be a bad idea,
either, if both of us got a little sleep sometime
before daylight. What do you think?”

He kissed her softly and she smiled at him
through her tears. But she still looked thoughtful.
So he waited.

“Well?” he questioned whimsically. “Anything
more coming? If so, let’s have it and get it out of
our systems.”

He had risen and stood looking down at her over
the foot of the bed. For a moment she was silent,
seemingly buried in thought. He suddenly realized
what she was thinking about and his face grew hot.

This splendid son whom she loved had one grave
fault — a passionate temper which he had never quite
learned to control. As a child he had sometimes
given way to fits of rage which made his elders
shake their heads apprehensively. True, since he
had become a man he had acquired a marvelous
degree of self-control. Rarely now did he give way
to things which vexed him. But the volcano still
smouldered fiercely underneath and once stirred to
the depths his wrath was terrible to encounter. She
knew that the new position he was about to assume
would bring its own trials, its own disappointments,
and the mother love within her prompted her to
warn him again on this night. She alone knew how
bitter had always been his remorse, how deep his
chagrin, how sincere his apologies as soon as the
storm had passed. But during all the years of her
life she had nursed a great fear that he would
some day say just one word too much. To spare
him this she would have given her life. Once when
he had been a boy in high school she came across
some lines in a poem and had given them to him
to commit to memory. When she spoke again it was
to remind him of it.

“Do you remember?” she asked.

“Very well, mother mine.”

“Say them again, dear — will you?”

Obediently as a child he began:

“Boys flying kites haul in their white-
winged birds.

You can’t do that way when you’re flying
words.

Thoughts unexpressed will sometimes fall
back dead,

But God Himself can-’t kill them when
they're said!"

“ When they're said!" she repeated after him.
“Oh, Jack,” she begged, “don’t say things you will
be sorry for. It’s been a long time now since
I’ve seen you angry, but I’m always — afraid —
dear ! All men have temper, of course. They
wouldn’t amount to shucks if they didn’t. But tem-
per is a thing to keep, not to lose. People find it
easy to forgive a man for what he does in the heat
of anger. But no man ever forgets what he says.
It’s the — the- — spoken word that slays, dear. It can
never be unsaid.”

He came back to her side and dropped onto his
knees. He knew her words were true. A thousand
times he had promised her to keep a curb on his
tongue. A thousand times, it now seemed to him,
he had broken his word. He would not promise
again, but he firmly resolved that he would become
master of himself. He did not speak, but he felt
a hand laid caressingly on his dark hair and in a
moment the mother said simply, “My son will not
forget. Goodnight, dear.”

II

F OR the next two years things ran along at the
office of the Sentinel with amazing smoothness.
Everybody fell to with a will to keep the paper up
to the standard. Even Mathews, whom Haverly
disliked and distrusted, seemed to be loyal to the
common interest. His work was good. He was
always prompt and, unless he could find something
definite on which to base his personal feelings,
Haverly resolved to play fair and be absolutely just
to him. It was only when he saw him talking to
Helen that he. wished he might find something sub-
stantial which would furnish him with an excuse
to get rid of him.

As for Helen — well, Jack acknowledged to himself
that she gave him more uncomfortable moments
than all the rest of the office force put together.
When, almost noiselessly, she approached his desk
and modestly deposited thereon a cracking good
story, slipping away as quickly as she had come,
Haverly never failed to find something radically
wrong with his vital organs for the next half hour.
Lungs, heart or stomach — he couldn’t exactly locate
the disturbance. He only knew that he breathed
altogether too rapidly, that, as he expressed it, his
“pump” worked too fast, and that, on top of both
of these things, he felt confoundedly “queer.” If he
made some excuse to detain her, which not infre-
quently happened, the only difference lay in the
severity of the attack and the length of time it took
him to get back into condition again. During these
brief intervals she had astonished him with her
breadth of vision, her clear analysis, her knowledge
of literature, art, music, and the other things which
go to make life worth while. One morning when he
had found his equilibrium almost completely disar-
ranged because of a direct glance from those won-
drous eyes, he said to her, “I envy you, Miss Holden.

I think I never saw you unless you were smiling.
Don’t you ever get bothered about things?”

“Oh, often. But — ‘keep near thee, O Woman, that
which weds thee to laughter, not to tears’ ” she quoted,
and before he knew it she was gone.

How was the editor of the Sentinel to know that
this quiet young woman who was playing so large a
part in his daily life was indeed much more unusual
than even he imagined her? That she came from a
long line of cultured, literary and artistic ancestry?
That her unusual gifts had been showered upon her
at birth, nursed and cultivated during her child-
hood? That she was a living exemplification of that
almost indefinable word heredity t To Helen Holden
the use of a pen came as naturally as does the use
of a needle to the woman who likes to sew, and
when, at nineteen, she had been left alone in the
world, she had turned to it as a means of self-sup-
port. To the Sentinel she had become invaluable,
and her work for the paper quite occupied her days. .
But the nights were all her own, and during the
long evening hours she lived her real life.

TTER own father had been a goldsmith — a clever
-*■ -l craftsman whose artistic designs and perfect
workmanship were known the world over although
his name was not. His father, and all who lay behind
him, had been journalists. All her life Helen had
cherished a passion for her father’s work. When
she was a tiny child she would sit for hours on the
high work-bench watching him bending over sonm
beautiful thing, utterly oblivious to her presence.
When she was older he had taught her how to “work”
the metals, the silver and gold which came out after-
ward in such lovely patterns. Gradually she became
almost as expert as himself. At twelve she began to
express herself in original designs which were a
delight to the eye.

When her father died and the little home they
had shared had to be given up, Helen herself had
packed away the contents of the little shop.
Tenderly and with tears she moved about, touching
softly the things she had learned to love, thinking
that never again could they be of service to her,
yet grimly resolved that no one else should have
them. Then she had gone forth into the work-a-day — *
world, had found an inexpensive room in a quiet
neighborhood and taken her few belongings there.

But when she had been in the house only a few
days she learned of the large attic above her room.

The kind-hearted landlady who kept the house
cheerfully granted her permission to use it and here,
during her leisure hours, Helen wrought her dreams
into realities.

Haverly discovered her talent one day quite by
accident. She came in to put her story on his
desk as usual and found him looking discontentedly
at the sketch of the design to be used for the cover
of the fiction section of the Sunday paper. The
subject as a whole was’ all right for the purpose — a
pleading lover and a hesitant maid. But the face of
the man was weak. It jarred upon her artistic
soul. She looked at it a moment and then said:

“I don’t like that. Do you?”

“No,” he answered. “But I don’t know just what
is the matter with it.”

She flashed one of her level, disconcerting glances
at him and then replied.

“I do. The man’s face is weak. I’d have a hard
time getting up a thrill over a fellow with a
countenance like that. He ought to look like this.”

While Haverly was pulling himself together she
picked up an envelope from the desk and began to
draw. In a few rapid strokes she sketched a man’s
face, clear-cut, strong and very good to look at. So
engrossed was she in the task that she did not see
Haverly’s eager eyes fixed, not upon the drawing,
but upon her own lovely face. As he watched he
saw a mischievous dimple come into her cheek and
it was followed by more dimples all around her
mouth. One couldn’t expect a man to talk sense
under the circumstances. When he recovered suf-
ficiently to speak it was only to say lamely,

“Why I didn’t know you could draw!”

Helen tipped her head to one side and surveyed
her work. Then she laughingly wrote her initials,

H. H., down in the corner. Still laughing, she backed
off to a safe distance and held up the picture for
his inspection, and when Mr. Jack Haverly, editor
of the Sentinel removed his eyes from her face to
the picture, he got the shock of his life. The face
was his own!

She tossed the envelope toward him and started
to run from the room. But — woman proposes and
man occasionally disposes! The editor had come to.
Before she got half-way across the room the door
had been closed with not a little emphasis and a very

MOVIE PICTORIAL

resolute-looking man with a pair of splendid shoul-
ders was backed up against it. She was caught in
her own trap. For a moment the two eyed each
other in silence, several feet of space between them.
Then the man spoke.

“Come here, Helen,” he said, “ fight here

where — you — belong.”

He held out his arms, but the young woman,
flushed, panting and defiant, would have none of
them.

“I w-won’t!” she gasped. “I — I’m n-not coming at
all!”

He waited a moment.

Then he spoke again
and in a different tone.

“Please dear! Come!

Don’t you know how I
want you, Helen?” Then,
as she made no move,

“You know I could come
and get you, dear, but
— I don’t want to.

Please come — to — me!”

H E watched her face
as he spoke and saw
a change come into it. It
grew soft and beautiful
and the look in her eyes
thrilled him through.

For those eyes were lit
Avith love, and there
was something else in
them — something he
could not just under-
stand. Was she just a
little bit — afraid? The
thought stung him. He
was about to give up his
purpose and go to her.

But before the idea had
time to mature he saw
her move timidly to-
ward him and when
she had traversed half
the distance he sprang,
lover-like, to meet her.

“Oh, Girl! Girl!” he
half whispered as he
folded her in his arms

closely, “ don’t you

know how I love you?

Don’t you know!”

She did not answer
immediately, but when
the arms about her
loosened a bit and he
looked down he saw
that her open hands
were pressed flatly
against the lapels of his
coat. She rubbed them
up and down once or
twice, then mechanical-
ly pulled the two sides
together and fastened
the top buttons. Then
she raised a roguish
little face and said de-
murely, “No — of course
not. How did you ex-
pect me to know it?”

“Well,” he stam-
mered, “I thought ”

She laughed a de-
licious little laugh.

“ ’Fraid cat! ” she
taunted. “Six feet big,
editor -of a newspaper
and scared of poor little
me !”

“Guilty!” he admit-
ted manfully, “but, you see ”

He never could remember afterward just what
excuse he had intended framing to cover hi’s cow-
ardice, for before the words came something hap-
pened. The two slender hands began to creep
"Kpward. Two soft arms locked tightly behind his
head and a voice, tender, quivering, vibrant, spoke.
“Oh, I love you — love you — LOVE you!”

The tremulous beating of the man’s heart sud-
denly subsided into its regular throb. The blood
that had been racing riotously through his veins
cooled. He was awed, humble. The slender figure
in his arms was pliant, unresisting, the lips he
kissed, tremulous and yielding. Hers had been the
Gift Supreme. The words he whispered against
her ear, though old as the everlasting hills them-

selves were just as new as on that primal morn
when the First Man spoke them and the First
Woman heard. Haverly made a covenant with him-
self that she should never know regret, and all that
was man within him fiercely vowed that nothing
should ever take from him the beauteous Thing that
had come into his life.

Ill

During the next few months the days flew by on
wings. The routine of the office allowed the lovers

only occasional glimpses of each other during the
day, for Helen’s work was over before Haverly’s
began. But at five o’clock each afternoon they had
dinner together, spending in each other’s presence
a golden hour hallowed to their dreams for the
future, filled with confidences intimate and dear,
often given over to the long silences more eloquent
than words which fall between hearts that love
with understanding.

Toward the end of the year Helen observed that
Jack was preoccupied — that something was in his
thoughts which she could not share. A sudden fear
tugged painfully at her heart. Was he beginning
to regret? To feel that his love for her, in spite
of the pleasure that it brought, was becoming a bur-
den? She put the thought quickly away from her, but

one evening as they dined together she said with a
laugh which was not altogether natural, “You’ll be
so accustomed to seeing my face on the other
side of the table that it will be no novelty at all!”

“Ah, but ” he had answered quickly with a

little catch in his voice, “it will be different after —
when we’re married. Sweetheart!”

At his words she had buried the ghost that had
haunted her. Whatever might be the cause of his pre-
occupation she herself had naught to do with it. She
longed for his confidence but did not wish to ask for it.

Haverly had seen
some of his dreams
come true. The cottage
at the edge of town had
become a reality. All
summer the garden had
bloomed riotously and
the mother had seemed
to grow young again.
He had won the woman
he loved and they were
to be married at the
New Year. Yet that
night after seeing Helen
on the car, as Haverly
turned back to the office
his heart was heavy.
There was a traitor
somewhere in his own
office. Persistent effort
on his part for the last
three months had failed
to reveal who it was.
He longed to believe
that it w'as Mathews.
But Mathews had given
him no reason to be-
lieve it. He had watched
him closely and had
found no grounds on
which to suspect him.
About three months pre-
viously an important edi-
torial which Haverly had
written had disappeared
mysteriously from his
desk. That in itself was
bad enough. But he had
quickly re-written it
and supposed that it
had just been misplaced.
When it appeared ver-
batim in the morning
edition of the Chronicle.
the Sentinel's only ri-
val, on the next day,
however, the whole
staff of the latter
journal had been struck
dumb. Mathews, along
with the rest, had ex-
pressed his indignation.
A few weeks later the
thing had happened
again, and this time it
was Mathews’ own
“scoop” on the exist-
ence of commercialized
vice in a certain aristo-
c r a t i c neighborhood
which disappeared.
Mathews was loud in
his denunciation of the
guilty one, whoever it
was. He had turned in
another copy and, as
before, the article ap-
peared, word for word,
in both papers. In the
face of Mathews’ wrath.
Jack could not believe
him guilty. Yesterday, for the third time, the thing
had occurred again. Haverly and Thornton were
absolutely nonplussed.

They held a quiet conference in Jack’s office and
resolved that they would run the culprit to cover,
come what would. Every man on the staff was
warned not to discuss the affair on peril of losing
his job. But to Helen Jack said no word. Five
weeks, four weeks, three weeks, two weeks till the
woman he loved would be his own. Helen's quiet,
happiness appealed to him as nothing else in the
world could. She was living with her dreams and
they were dreams he did not wish to disturb.

Meanwhile Helen was occupying her evenings de-
lightfully in making her lover a Christmas present.
Many weeks ago she had thought of it, and it was

“So! It was you, was tt?” he said. Then he laughed, — a bitter, mocking laugh with a barb In every tone. “You! The snake in
the grass that always strikes from behind! A traitor, — a — a thief?”

MOVIE PICTORIAL

to be quite the loveliest, the most perfect thing she
had ever fashioned. She drew one design after
another only to discard them all and go to bed dis-
couraged. But like many of the good things of life
it came suddenly. One night as she lay in bed think-
ing of it she suddenly remembered that day in
Jack’s office when she had drawn his face on the
envelope. She sprang out of bed, switched on the
light, slipped into a warm kimono, sat down at the
table, seized a pencil and pad and began to sketch
rapidly. A man’s face, strangely familiar, with a
fine straight mouth, deep set eyes fringed with
heavy lashes, grew quickly under the light stroke
of the pencil. There was a world of tenderness in
it as it looked down on something evidently very
dear. She held it up for a moment, looked at it,
sighed with satisfaction and laid it aside. Then,
taking another pad she began a second sketch. She
pushed a chair up before the dressing table, took
the pins out of her hair and shook it loose, tipped
the mirror back until she was looking almost
directly upward into it. Then she threw back her
head and smiled. For a moment she gazed at the
reflection, then went back to the table and began to
draw — a radiant, smiling upturned face — her own.
When it was finished, with the scissors she cut out
the two faces and fitted them together. She clapped
her hands softly at the success of her plan and crept
back into bed.

F OR the next week she worked feverishly in her
attic under the eaves. On the day before Christ-
mas the perfect thing was finished. It was a cigarette
case of beaten silver with here and there a touch
of gold. On the lower part the face of a girl
looked up and smiled. The upper half was wrought
into the face of a man, and when the lid snapped
down it was exactly as though he had bent forward
to kiss the smiling lips. Helen surveyed her work
with satisfaction. She gave it a final rub with a
piece of chamois, wrapped it carefully, placed it in
a small white box, tied it with a Christmas ribbon
and wrote on the outside Mr. John Haverly.

On the morning of the day before Christmas Jack
sat in his office vexed to the very bottom of his
soul. To use his own expression he was “mad all
the way down.” No amount of watching on his own
or Thornton’s part had thrown any light on the
mysterious thefts, another of which had occurred the
previous Sunday. Both had observed, however, that
the material stolen had always been that to be used
in some special edition of the paper. So they agreed
that until after the Christmas paper was off the
press the office should not be left alone — that one
would secrete himself during the other’s absence
where he could see, without being seen, any one
who approached the editor’s desk.

It was Haverly’s turn to watch on Christmas Eve.
He notified Helen that he could not go with her
to dinner as usual, but he would come for her on
Christmas morning, they would have a long, happy
day together and then — just one week more! Think-
ing, however, that Jack would go out alone for some-
thing to eat at the usual time, Helen resolved to slip
in to his office during his absence and place the little
package on his desk.

According to the plan which he had arranged
with Thornton when five o’clock came Haverly
walked through the outer office where the members
of the staff were at work, his hat in his hand and
his coat over his arm. He spoke to Kennedy, and to
Mathews, busy at their desks. Once outside, how-
ever, instead of taking the elevator he stepped back
into his own office through another door and slipped
into the file room, relieving Thornton who had been
on guard. Thornton then turned the gas low in
the office and went out by the same door through
which Jack had entered.

Haverly dropped into a chair and waited. Every
nerve in his body was strung taut. He felt that at
a touch they would snap. He had an almost over-
whelming feeling that something was about to hap-
pen, and whatever it was he wished it were over
with. For nearly an hour he sat there. One after
another the men in the next room went to dinner and
he was left alone. Presently a slight sound caused
him to sit up straight in his chair. Some one had
come into the room.

He peered through the crack of the door and in
the dim light saw the figure of a woman move
cautiously toward the desk. The figure was
familiar. His heart began to pound furiously.
Every drop of blood in his body seemed to rush to
his head. It was Helen!

She tiptoed noiselessly to the desk, opened the
little silver mesh bag she carried in her hand and
was just taking the package containing her gift
from it when her eyes fell upon something on the

desk which attracted her attention. Laying down
the bag she picked it up and tried to see it better.
It was the design in color for the front page of the
Christmas paper. How wondrously beautiful it
was! White-winged angels, in diaphanous floating
garments, flocking about the belfry of a cathedral,
tipping with their bare feet the pondrous bells to
make them ring out Peace on Earth, Good Will to
Men! Far below, in the grey dawn, were to be
seen the roofs and spires of the sleeping city. She
gazed at it spellbound — this woman who so loved
beauty in its every form of expression. But to the
man who watched, the dim light did not reveal the
glow of the dark eyes, the wonderfully softened face,
the parted, mobile lips.

The gas that burned so dimly was far above her
reach, but the longing to see the picture better was
great. So she stepped toward the door through
which she had come and was about to open it when
the movement of a chair in the file room startled
her. She gave a frightened little gasp as the man
sprang toward her!

From his point of observation Haverly had
watched her movements with a fascination to be
compared only with that by which the cobra draws
the fluttering bird. Helen! His girl! The dainty,
affectionate, spiritual-looking, exquisite little crea-
ture who had given him her love in utter abandon-
ment — in whom he had had such faith! The whole
universe seemed toppling about his ears. His
pulses throbbed till he felt that he was going mad.
Vainly he wrestled to keep a hold on himself, little
lights like tiny points of flame danced before his
eyes. Not until he had seen her move toward the
door with the picture in her hand had he realized
the necessity of doing something.

The flaming wrath within him suddenly gave way
to a cool, calculating anger. He felt scornful, con-
temptuous, dangerous. His heart stopped pound-
ing. He was no longer conscious of a desire to
smash things — only of an inclination to taunt, to
insult, to condemn. Helen already stood with her
hand on the door knob when she became aware of
his presence. She gave ^ low cry as she felt her
wrist seized as in a vise and heard the voice, which
never before had spoken other than kindly, utter-
ing words which cut like the lash of a whip.

“Not this time !” he said mockingly.

H E TOOK the picture from her hands and tossed
it back onto the desk. Then he thrust his
hands into his pockets and stood regarding her con-
temptuously.

“So! It was you, was it?” he said. Then he
laughed — a bitter, mocking, scornful laugh with a
barb in every tone. “You! The snake in the grass
that always strikes from behind! A traitor — a — a
thief! Well, everything comes to him who waits.

It has taken me a year to find you out. Here ”

He turned up the light, dropped into the chair
before the desk and wrote her a checque.

“Here,” he continued, “I guess this is coming to
you for your Christmas story. Take it, and then go
over to the Chronicle where you belong. They’ll
appreciate your talents there, and — don’t — come —
back!”

Utterly bewildered, unable to sense his meaning,
she took the checque mechanically, looked at it
blankly for a moment. Then she tore it into riddles
and flung them into his face. Darting to the desk
she picked up the little silver bag and fled the
room.

As she crossed the outer office she ran plump into
Thornton returning from dinner. Shocked and
mystified as well at the white, anguished face he
made an effort to detain her. But she stared at him
as though she had never seen him before and sped
on. Suddenly the thing revealed itself to him. He
hurried to Haverly’s office.

“Jack!” he gasped, “it was — no — it couldn’t be

Haverly did not answer. With head on arms on
the desk he sat motionless, as one dead. . Thornton
shook him.

“Get up, Jack! Quick !” Then after a pause, “I don’t
believe it,” he cried hotly. “I tell you / don't believe
it! My God, man! What have you done? Didn’t
you see her face? There must be some mistake!”
Haverly groaned! The storm had spent itself.
Once again the smouldering volcano within him
had burst into flame and this time it had buried
beneath its hot lava the woman he loved. Now the
seething fire had died out. He shivered and felt
cold. Too late he realized that he had condemned
her unheard, and the memory of that agonized,
terror-stricken face would haunt him to his dying
day. No more on earth, he thought, could that

beauteous, living, palpitating Thing which he had
crushed be restored to him. Even though the ashes
underneath which it had been buried could be
cleared away, he should find only the empty shell
from which the soul had fled! The spoken word.

What would he not give if he could only recall it.

The memory of his mother's warning flashed across
him like a great sea wave:

“Thoughts unexpressed will sometimes fall back
dead.

But God himself can’t kill them when they're
said!"

There must be some mistake! Thornton’s words
beat against his ear like the thunder of a thousand
drums. There must be some mistake!

When Helen left the building she plunged blindly
into the crowd of belated Christmas shoppers which
thronged the streets. The day had been balmy and
beautiful, far more like April than December. But
within the hour the mercury had taken a downward
tumble and a piercingly cold wind was beginning
to whistle about the tall buildings. Those fortunate
enough to possess furs and limousines crept into
them. The rest began scurrying to whatsoever
shelter the gods afforded them. Helen was not
dressed for bitter weather. The jaunty jacket of
her tailored suit was not fashioned for nights such
as this promised to be. But she was unconscious
of the cold. With that indefinable desire just to
"get away” she struck out blindly through the crowd,
walking on and on and on. Both mind and body were

benumbed. Somewhere just outside her mental grasp — -

was the consciousness of something terrible that had
happened. What it was she could not have told.

On and on she went, till at last the glimmering
lights of the park came into view. She began to
realize that she was walking unsteadily. Her feet
no longer responded to her desire to keep on going.

She dragged herself to a bench by the drive and sat
down on it. There was not a soul in sight.
Evidently the park was not popular on Christmas
Eve. She began to grow drowsy. And how delight-
fully warm it was getting! The cold wind which
but a moment ago had cut her through had melted
to summer zephyrs. She would go to sleep and
forget! -

A moment later a big black machine shot into
the lower end of the park. It came swiftly up the
drive. It had a single occupant, a man who, like
every one else who has a home, was hurrying to it
on Christmas Eve. As the car shot past the bench,
however, the chauffeur stopped suddenly.

“What’s the trouble, Duffy?” asked the man inside.

“My God, sir! She’ll freeze to death!” he replied.

“Freeze? Who? What are you talking about any-
way?”

“A woman on the bench we just passed, sir.”

“A woman? Back up. Quick!”

The man obeyed and when the bench was
reached both men sprang out. Vainly they tried
to rouse the drooping figure. True, she opened her
eyes and stared blankly at them, but that was all,
and neither of them noticed the silver bag which
had slipped from her hand and fallen at her feet.

“Into the car, quick, Duffy!”

TT WAS not the man but the physician who spoke.

A It needed no second glance for him to realize that
there was not a moment to lose, also that it was a
case for the hospital and not the police station.

“To St. Luke’s — as fast as you can!"

Thp man obeyed. When the hospital was reached
and the white-uniformed internes had skillfully
transferred the unconscious girl from the machine
to the wheeled cart the doctor turned to the driver
and said:

“You can take the car home, Duffy. And tell
Mary and the kiddies they’ll have to do without
Daddy tonight.”

At dawn, just as the chimes began ringing out
the Christmas message, the doctor stood looking
down into the face of a fever-tossed, wild-eyed,
suffering girl. Who she was, or where she came
from, he had no idea. He had picked her up off
the street, as it were. But of one thing he was
certain. She was no ordinary young woman. He
noted the delicate, cameo-like face, the artistic-look*—'
ing, slender hands and blue veined wrists. She
was well worth saving. But as he looked at her
the doctor realized that to do so would mean the fight
of his life. Twenty-four hours later he realized it
more than ever. That she had had some terrible
shock the nature of which was unknown to him
was evident, but next day an exclamation from him
caused the white-capped nurse to look at him in-
quiringly.

“Pneumonia, also,” he said.

7

MOVIE PICTORIAL

IV

N EVER before had a man so devoutly thanked
God for occupation as did Haverly that night.
The Christinas paper had to be gotten out no matter
what else happened. The office rang with cries for
copy. The presses were running furiously. That
Helen had done other than go home after she left
him did not occur to Jack. Well, tomorrow he
would try to see her, humbly to ask for forgiveness,
and if she saw fit to withhold it (which he thought
altogether likely), he would take his punishment
like a soldier. It was no more than he deserved.
But during the short time which had elapsed since
she left him Haverly had become conscious of one
weighty truth. Love is Love — no more, no less,
and if the woman he loved had stolen the whole
office equipment from the printing-press down to
the ink bottle, he would love her just the same.
* Christmas morning dawned clear and cold. Jack
assumed a cheerfulness which he was far from feel-
ing. But the mother was not to be deceived. She

looked at him with eyes of understanding. Not for
nothing had she watched over him for more than
thirty years. His spirits were altogether too high
to be natural. She was quick to detect the forced
note in his laugh. When in the middle of the morn-
ing he said he was going out for a walk she looked
after him and sighed. It was not difficult to sur-
mise what was the matter.

As he walked down the street Jack’s thoughts
went back to the evening before. He would do what
he could to make it right. Helen loved — no, she had

loved him, and when a woman loves . But, no.

She couldn't forgive him. No woman could. A man
had no right to expect it. But he could tell her he
was sorry and that he loved her and would love
her always whether she forgave him or not.

It occurred to Haverly as he set forth on his way
that he did not know Helen’s address. He had seen
her daily at the office and the lateness of the hour
when his own duties were finished had precluded
the possibility of much visiting. He went to the
Sentinel building to look at the address book and

when he reached the floor on which was his own
office he heard the telephone ringing on his desk.
He took down the receiver and said:

“The Sentinel office. Mr. Haverly speaking.”

His face went white at what came over the wiie.
It was the desk sergeant of the Burton Park police
station who spoke.

“Haverly, you say? Well, I guess you’re just the
man I am hunting for. Do you know Miss Helen
Holden ?”

“Yes. Yes. What about her?”

“Well, last night about nine o’clock, sir, one of
my men saw a woman sit down on a bench in the
park. It was so cold that he knew something was
wrong and started to her. Before he could reach
her a big limousine drew up, took the woman
in and drove off. It was too dark for him to see
the man or get the number of his car, but when he
reached the bench he found a small silver bag lying
on the ground. It has Miss Holden’s cards in it
and a small package addressed to you, sir.”

( Continued on Page 23)

A Holiday With Kerrigan

1— REVEILLE

The morning sun has topped the hills,
And all the world’s a care again,
Once more we hear the mountain rills,
Oh, wake up! Sahib Kerrigan!

2— “BELLES LETTRES”

The morning mail is good to read,

So filled with cheer and breathing bliss.
Belles Lettres of Belles’ Letters, plead.

And make the morning air a kiss!

3— NIMROD

Abaft the vale a grizzly stalks,

The rifle’s poised, the aim is true,
And never more that bruin walks
When Warren K. is there to view.

4— MERIDIAN

The hunter seeks the welcome camp,

The woodfire’s glow is warming cheer.
And weary limbs and appetite

Proclaim the noonday meal is near.

5 —SIESTA

The cheering sun, the redwood’s bough,

A magazine, a nod, a yawn,

And then sweet slumber soothes his brow —
And rest creeps into brain and brawn.

6— TAHOE

The waning day, the sinking sun,
And then he tries pot-luck again.
How time has sped since day begun,
Oh, happy Sahib Kerrigan!

8

MOVIE

PICTORIAL

I

KATHLYN

UNAFRAID

T HE Emperor Decius arose from the royal booth
far above the arena’s pit, and gazed in wonder
at the white-robed figure of the Christian girl,
who walked unharmed among the famished
lions, and who raised her blue eyes to heaven and
smiled. The jungle beasts had refused to harm her.
The spectators ceased their babble; the bloodlust
was chilling in their hearts, and they were afraid
of the Christian girl’s God.

* * * *

Nearly seventeen hundred years sped by. A fair-
haired girl, with eyes as blue as the azure dome
above, jumped nimbly from the back of her pony,
on a Montana ranch, and reveled in the flowers that
carpeted the valley. Suddenly the pony snorted in
fear, wheeled on his rear hoofs, and darted to cover.
The girl looked up wonderingly, and sat petrified
as a huge red bull, pawing dust and bellowing malig-
nantly, darted toward her. The girl smiled, and the
beast paused. Then she held out a hand in wel-
come, and the animal’s eyes opened wider. What
manner of child was this that had not heard of his
temper? The beast sniffed curiously, bent his wide
nostrils close to the beautiful creature, and then,
the fire deadened to ash in his heart, turned and
sauntered slowly away.

Was the girl in the Roman arena the same lassie
that conquered the enraged animal centuries later?
Do such things happen in the cycle of the centuries?
If they do not, then whence came the magic that
Kathlyn Williams — Kathlyn Unafraid — exercises
over the creatures of the forest?

“When fear no longer exists, and there is guile
in one’s heart toward none of Brahma’s creatures,”
says the ancient Hindu, “then one may walk through
the jungles, and every living thing is friendly.” So
it is with Kathlyn Unafraid, who speaks to the in-
trepid jungle cats, and stills their fears, and causes
them to whine a welcome, and lie down at her feet.
No lash, no peevish scoldings, no censure is her
weapon — but a something that can not be seen or
analyzed or properly described.

Once, when Toddles, the Selig elephant, had suf-
fered the loss of his tusks, Kathlyn strolled danger-
ously near, and the muscular proboscis encircled
her slender waist, and the little actress was lifted
high above the enraged brute’s head. But she spoke
softly and reassuringly, and the evil went out of
Toddle’s heart, and he set her down on the ground. •
Why did his infuriated resolve to be done with her
leave him, and prevent his carrying out his foul
purpose? Toddles didn’t know. If he could know,
then all he realized Was that the white heat of anger
died within him, and from him sped the longing to
destroy one of the members of the pigmy race of
tormentors that held

on the part of the animals.
Once, to illustrate, we
wished to have a leopard
leap — presumably upon me.
In order to make the illu-
sion acceptable, the leop-
ard must leap in reality.
One of the men prepared
a bait — a newly beheaded
chicken, still warm and
lively in its last reflex ac-
tions. I held it in my
hands, and as the leopard
sprung, I let go the bait,
but all too soon. The
beast landed on my shoul-
ders, and his claws — accus-
tomed to dig into the tree-
limbs of his natal forest —
pierced my soft flesh.

o :

iNE of the property
men grasped a fresh’
bait, and the leopard con-
tinued his spring. It was
but a momentary pause,
but my scalp was lacer-
ated, and for days I was
out of the films. But I
do not blame the beast;
it was my own fault in
incorrectly timing his
spring. He had no quarrel
with me, but pursued what
his appetite told him was a rare feast.”

Elephants present the most ponderous dangers,
for in even their playful moods they are never
dainty or considerate. Folk who have lived in the wilds
tell strange stories of the pranks of the pachyderms.
Once, in a little South African Village, there was
an early evening raid of young bull elephants,
that had come to the village rim quietly in prepara-
tion of their devilish jaunt. Then, at the command
of their leader, they descended on the town, the
houses of which were constructed on stilts. With
rampant trumpetings, they would “warp” into the
buildings or against the props, and amid the screams
of the affrightened population, the beasts made a
safe “get-away,” having had their questionable sport.

Once, when Miss Williams and Tom Sanchi were
in a howdah on a pachyderm’s back, the animal
took fright, or else was prompted by some rougish
impulse. He started to run, and although his loping
was anything but graceful, the speed was consider-

him captive.

“Wild beasts are not
anxious to attack hu-
man beings," Miss Wil-
liams says. “But they
are fearful of the
strange bipeds that
have such unfathomable
ways — such unusual
trickery. And within
them rises the cry of
self-defense, and they
strike because they fear.
Often I visit with my
animal friends. The
leopards are tractable,
but the larger cats —
such as lions and tigers
— are more wary of hu-
man purposes. And yet,
I have had them nestle
their heads near my
feet, and fall into a half
sleep of vast content-
ment. When injury oc-
curs, it is unintentional

Others have copied her work, but never her success. Others take precautions, but
four-footed, soft-treading denizens of the dark, and acts natural w

Out at Sells* Western there Is a young woman of
classic beauty and marvelous charm, and we love
her because she Is undaunted Kathlyn Unafraid

able. A gum-tree grove was convenient to his
aims, and toward it he raced, trumpeting
loudly, with a half dozen spraw-footed com-
panions bringing up the rear, all contributing
to the unearthly concert. Tom Sanchi was
brushed off by a projecting bough, and Miss
Williams chanced a slide down the toboggan-
slope of the elephant’s side. It was a bad fall, with
one of the oncoming mountains of Asiatic flesh nar-
rowly missing her — for elephants are not guaranteed
to be of the non-skid variety.

There are times, when the sun is dipping behind
the western hills, that Kathlyn Unafraid wanders
through the great inclosures of the Selig zoo, where
all manner of strange beasts are impounded. The
animals sense her coming, and the sinuous cats pace
expectantly in their cages, as she passes and speaks
a word of cheer. They gaze at her questioningly,
as though moved by wonder at the spell she casts
upon them. And they know, when they are brought
into the cast for animal pictures, that there’s a sort
of undefined honor to do what they should do —
without harm to the wonderful little lady who
weaves a spell over them.

Would you take the same chances? In the security
of your home, or gazing at the beasts in a park zoo,
you would perhaps claim lack of fear. But let it be
understood that you were to enter a cage with a

tiger — now, honestly.

Kathlyn understands the
Ith them

would you do it? Yet,
uncounted “animal
stories” are sent to the
Selig company, the plots
of which demand of
Miss Williams chances
that no one acquainted
with wild beasts would
ever ask her to take.
The things the animals
are supposed to do, not
only credit to them hu-
man wisdom, but skill
as well.

AND the action -ioxJ
zAMiss Williams, if
these scenarios were to
be produced, would de-
mand her to do the very
things that she must
not do — the things that
would enrage the beasts
beyond reason.

All animals are sus-
ceptible to excitement.

The great cats are the most irritable of them all.
Even your faithful, loving house dog will go into a
frenzy of excitement with a little teasing. You, his
master or mistress, must draw a line beyond which
1 his punishment must not go. He will take a whip-
ping and may be scolded, but try to hurt him unduly,
and unless he is a spineless thing, he will fight
back. The preparations of a studio are filled with
fuss and hustle and excitement, and the beasts feel
this tenseness and are on the alert. What devilish
trap are the humans springing for them now? What
horrible death lurks in the wake of this prepared-
ness? And while they are in this frame of mind,
Kathlyn Unafraid enters the scene — and must con-
quer their natural fears and still their excessive
perturbation. Strong men would shrink from the
task, but Miss Williams can look straight into the
eyes of these animals, and make them feel friendly
toward her. She quiets their fears; she reassures
m them, as though she had learned their strange
language — perhaps a language of gestures and ex-
pressions rather than of sounds — or maybe a sort
of wireless system of messages that the beasts feel
and interpret correctly.

One might fancy, with all her love for animals,
that she would possess many of her own. But she
is without dog or cat or horse, and must make her
friends in the vast zoological gardens of the Selig
Western plant. Once she had Boris, an English
bulldog, scion of a $10,000 sire. But Boris is gone,
.&fid there are no animal members of the household.

Kathlyn Williams “set the pace” in animal pic-
tures. Her “Adventures of Kathlyn” set in motion
the introduction of jungle and veldt creatures into
the silent drama. Others have copied her work,
but never her success. Others take wonderful pre-
cautions, but Kathlyn understands the four-footed,
soft-treading denizens of the dark, and acts natural
when with them. Her animal stories (many of
which she writes and directs herself) have made
her famous the world over. Her "Balu, the Leopard
Foundling,” illustrates one of her innumerable
strokes of constructive and histrionic genius. But
she has had many pictures of the sort, and will have
many more. Some day, the critics say, she will
“get it.” Perhaps she will, but never through the
intentional rage of the animals. Through their
extreme sensitiveness, and fear and suspicions, plus
the excitement of the studios, they may strike out
or sink their cruel teeth into her soft, white flesh.

MOVIE PICTORIAL

We shudder to think of such a tragedy. But should
Kathlyn permit fear to creep into her heart and
claim her, then the days of her animal stories would
be at a close. These beasts feel fear. Perhaps they
regard it as an indication of treachery. But when
fear is absent, then intent of wrong-doing toward
them is not present, and they are at ease, and with-
out danger.

Once, a high-caste Hindu gazed at the screen
showing one of the animal masterpieces of Miss
Williams, and his eyes brightened. He had known
of such things among the dark-skinned folk of his
own land, where the vapors of the Ganges spread
a strange miasma of mysticism over the forests
and the plains. He arched his brows, and breathed:
“How comes it that a woman of the Occident has
solved our riddles?” And then he lapsed into
silence, and admired the fair goddess of the screen,
for he detected in her a kinship — a something that
dated back, maybe, to the lost continent of the
Pacific, whence came the philosophers of old.

Personally, Miss Williams seems to be simply a
very delightful American girl, interested in the
same things that other American girls find interest
in, and absorbed with the same little opinions. She
is delightful, always — and sincere, as well. That is
the Kathlyn-of-the-Home. She sets aside her studio
self, and forgets about her dangerous moments. But
once she has prepared for a part, then the light of a
strange understanding gleams in her eyes. Her
other self has come into power — the self that projects
assurance to the stealthy, alert forms in the cages
and pits.

Stranger than all else, is that there should be com-
bined in one person this hypnotic power over beasts,
and a high type of dramatic skill. She seems to be
fi wholesome American girl thrown into the heart of
strange adventure, but acting always as we might
expect' an American miss to act under the circum-
stances. The screen shows us none of her almost
uncanny powers — not any more than her conver-
sation with you would disclose. We must assume
that her exercise of magic over animals is accom-
plished without conscious effort on her part — as
though her waking mind had naught to think about
but the interpretation of the part. We might feel
that such strange powers could never reconcile
themselves to golden hair and blue eyes. But the
paradox is ever before us. She does not look like a
sorceress over jungle creatures — and yet she is!

We are reminded, in considering the remarkable
achievements of Miss Williams, that we are all cast
for parts — we have been chosen without choosing;
we find certain points of least resistance toward
which we turn without knowing why, or reasoning,
or questioning. It is doubtful if, through force of
bravery, one could accustom oneself to mingle with
the jungle beasts— cunning, fearful of the more
highly cultured man-animals that have made them
captive — the sinister, two-legged creatures that build
strange prisons of slender steel, against which the
brute-power of the beasts is of no avail. To the
captive animal, man is the most abominable of all
enemies — the last to be trusted, and the first to
select for vengeance. But this slender, fair-haired,
laughing eyed woman, knowing that danger lurks
in the restive movements of the lithe denizens of
the dark, feels no fear, and walks where strong men
would hesitate to venture. What is the secret?
Does she know? Or is there not something hidden
in her mind that projects itself and commands re-
spect and safety? We ask— but ask in vain — for we
have learned but little, and must guess blindly at
the rest. We judge only by watching effects. The
causes themselves are mysterious. Sometimes we
think we know — but how far we may come from the
truth! The animals themselves do not know. It
is not reason with them — but assurance. That is
the manner of power she exercises over them —
assurance. But how many of the rest of us, prat-
ing of bravery, would find solace amid the cages- —
when the sun goes down, and the spirit of the wilds
is loosed in a mad desire for* freedom? But at
these times, Miss Williams walks among them,
soothes them, and coaxes back into their troubled
hearts the feeling of vast content.

Perhaps the haughty Decius, in modern form,
may some day enter a picture theater and view
Kathlyn on the screen. Would there not be awak-
ened within him a secret memory of the past?
Would he not rise from his seat and point a finger
trembling toward her, and breathe, “What manner
of woman is this?” Perhaps. Who knows? Who
can guess all the riddles in these work-a-day times,
where there are so many ordinary things to do?
All we know is that, out at the Selig Western, there
is a young woman of classic beauty and marvelous
charm, who causes the beasts to do her bidding, and
that we love her because she is Kathlyn Unafraid.

llllllllllillllllllillll

lll!ll!!!l

Whence comes the subtle charm, the weird magnetic grip she holds jj
upon our hearts?

’Tis not alone dramatic art for others please us in their varied
parts

Upon the magic screen, that mimic of our features, actions, thoughts g
and fears,

Which registers with eloquence unspoken all our joys, our moods, g
our tears.

Whereon we actors see ourselves as others see us, virtues, defects — g
ALL!

A repetition of our other selves responding to the Author’s g
call,

And yet gives glimpses through the Mummer’s mask of our real
selves and takes

A message to beholders, one which makes them love us, fear us, g
seals or shakes

Their confidence and brings respect or grim reserve, invites response
in kind,

Strange telepathic messages, unerring, true, transferred from mind g
to mind.

We see her in her rags or coronet, her hair unkempt or dressed |j
and feel

Her moods of pathos, petulance, her very frowns or tears are
real.

’Tis art, Oh, yes, indeed, the art of nature’s artist mirrored heart g
and soul,

For be she quaint princess or lowly beggar maid, she lives each g
varied role

And lives them all just as she FEELS them, THERE’S the secret g
of her grip and charm,

The reason why a great, big, bustling world lies willingly in the jj
small palm

Of her well moulded hand, and we who know her days, her home g
her nature sweet,

Her kindly deeds to those around her, KNOW just why the worid |
lies at her feet,

It j s the girl herself is good. Her charm of heart, her sweet- g

ness cannot vary

And so “Miss Pickford” has been lost, we know her not, remains g

but “Little Mary.” — Richard Willis

mi I mini IIIIII1III inn nil iiimimm

10

MOVIE PICTORIAL

INCEVILLE

r

Photo by Witzel

EUGENE H. ALLEN

N a quiet nook,
between the
majestic hills
and the deep
blue ocean, nes-
tles a Village of
Art in the King-
dom of Make-Be-
lieve, and through
its winding streets
all manner of
charming fairies
dance, and Prince
Charmings wend
their leisurely
way. It is just
like an enchanted
town in the story-books of childhood, and one may
well expect to see a Spanish Galleon billowing in
through the mysterious mists of the world beyond,
laden with pieces-of-eight, and slaves, and a merry,
bewhiskered band of deep-dyed pirates.

And this Dreamland spot is Inceville!

I paused in the offing and surveyed the city of
golden dreams — and then the zestful odors of newly
roasted beef greeted my willing nostrils, and I fared
forth to learn the manner of folk who were gathered
there. The rhythmic strains of a band mellowed up
to welcome me — and, behold! I was at home with a
horde of editors from the Par Country who had
come to view the place where films are created.
Ladies of Yesterday, and Courtiers gay, bedecked
in their rainbow finery, strutted and bowed, and
brushed elbows in Mission Court, to make a glad
holiday for the strangers from afar. For a barbecue
was on, and all manner of good foods waited the
command of the hungry wayfarer. And the host
beamed on his multitude of guests — the good host,
Sir Knight Thomas Ince.

Thomas H. Ince is the employer of these bold
knights and fair ladies, and his medium stature and

By Dick Melbourne

determined jowl, mark him as a mortal of high
voltage — who knows what he wants when he wants
it, as the ad sharks say. Right here I pause to
make a merry jest: “One can not mince with

Ince.” This is my own — although Mr. Ince may use
it if he elects. I had often wondered why the photo-
graphs of Mi 1 . Ince invariably showed the forehead
lined like a railway terminal. He is not at all that
way, except when weighty problems burden his
mind. He is loved and respected — and he is in-
spirational, and his dynamic properties are con-
tagious. He spreads the itch for work — for hard,
constant work during the working hours, with the
measure of art tempering the labor. One must ad-
mire Mr. Ince, for he has brought to reality the
dream of a few years back; he has created a little
empire of picture perfection, and he glories in the
artists with whom he has surrounded himself.

It is a wonderland — that Inceville— with wonderful
folk walking its winding lanes. The publican of the
Ince Capital is Kenneth O’Hara. That does not
sound much like the Spanish main; nor is it. Ken-
neth has the snap of Old Ireland in his make-up,
and this snap is all in tune with Ince requirements.
He looks very young for such laborious duties — but
that is because his heart is light. Men grow old
only when they take themselves too seriously; and
women, when others take them too seriously.

It is no place for lazy legs, that Inceville. There
are steep slopes, up or down, depending on the direc-
tion of one’s progress. It reminds me for all the
world of a Devonshire village in England, where one
progresses from the roofs of one street, onto the
level of the street above.

Past the buildings of Inceville, where all sorts
of wonders are housed, I began the climb toward
the upper reaches, and believe that all climbers

Photo by Witztl

THOMAS H. INCE

encounter good
company, for I
met Charles Ray.

I did not recog-
nize him at first,
for in this King-
dom of Dreams, I
fancied I had
been carried back
to the stirring
days of ’ 61 .

Charles was a
civil war officer,
side-whiskers and
all. We wan-
dered along a ter-
race, for Inceville
is constructed like the interior of a Pullman car,
with upper and lower berths! This was an upper
one — the row of dressing rooms, facing the broad
Pacific. He is a charming fellow, this Ray. He was
well-named — Ray. He radiates the sunshine that
his juvenile roles give him as his right. Mr. Ray
was playing at the time with Frank Keenan, a well-
known legitimate actor — and both enjoyed the work.

He is a well-pflt-together fellow, is Ray, and he is at
home in that wonderlana of Inceville.

There are various terraces, and some of them are
devoted to dressing rooms. As I sauntered along
one of these terraces, I encountered Howard Hick-
man, who had given himself over to the dreaminess
of the day. Besides being a most accomplished star
and a very lovable fellow, Mr. Hickman also has the
distinction of being the husband of that delightful
lady of the screen, Bessie Barriscale. Miss Barris-
cale occupies the room next door. You see, they get
along beautifully. But this was her busy day, and
beyond her ever-present smile she had scant time
.to distribute roses in my direction. Truly, I prefer >
Miss Barriscale’s smile to many conversations! If
mean the conversations of some others — not her,
own! Heaven forbid.

Louise Glaum
Photo by Linstedt

Margaret Gibson

Bessie Barriscale
Pliotoplayers Studio

Elizabeth Burbrld£e
Photo by Witzel

Rhea Mitchell

Photo by Witzel

Enid Markey

Margaret Thompson

Howard Hickman

Photo by Lori Hard,

William 5. Hart

MOVIE PICTORIAL

Pholo by Hartsook

Charles Ray

Photo by Witzel

Barney Sherry

Photo by Witzel

Richard Stanton

ll

Photoplayers Studio

House Peters ,

One of the terraces jutted out over the sea, as
though it were looking for mermaids! And, bless
me if there were not some honest-to-goodness fairies
resting gracefully on the green slope ! I blinked
hard. This was Story-Bookland after all! No, it
wasn’t! There was dainty little Louise Glaum. I
could pick Miss Glaum out of a million, if for no
other reason than her fantastic gowns and her funny
little caps. She and the other little fairies were
listening to the band, and waiting for the call of
duty. Louise is a heavy! You would never think
it, but she insisted that she must be a heavy and she
was. She is a very fine heavy, too — which refers
to the vernacular of the films, 'and not to pounds and
ounces!

Right beyond Louise I saw Rhea Mitchell, one of
the Inceville leading ladies. Some of them call her
Ginger” Mitchell, but then, who isn't envious of
beautiful hair? Her hair isn’t red — only a reddish-
brown, that catches the glint of the sun like 24-
karat gold waiting for the finder. Enid Markey
was also present. You know clever Enid who acts
opposite to Willard Mack. She is very earnest, is
Miss Markey, and some day she says she will return
to the speaking stage. But I wonder if the pretty
picture of Inceville-by-the-Sea won’t blot out the
stuffy auditorium, and make her homesick for the
hills and flowers, and the smiling Pacific that is
always convenient to encourage one on! Truly
Shattock was also one of these fairy queens. She
is a wonderful vocalist — with a voice like a mission
bell. She sang to the multitude and they encored
until she could respond no more — a penalty that art
ofttimes pays!

I fear I have kept you too long with the ladies.
No? But let us not forget the men. Therefore, we
shall start with William S. Hart, togged in his
western garb, and showing the boys how to ride.
He is a fine figure, and he fits a horse like money

fits a bank book. He is rangy and lean — built for
speed and durability. I hope he detects in this a
worthy compliment. It is meant that way.

Richard Stanton was there, also, taking scenes
in his big feature, "Aloha.” Willard Mack and
Enid Markey were in the pictures, and under Dick
Stanton's direction, they always enjoy their work.
“Smiling Dick,” his friends call him, and the name
fits him well. His spirit entertains guile toward
no man, and he is as happy as the kin that he has
in Heartfree Ireland.

Tom Brierly was in the throng — the maker of
scenes and atmosphere. Oh, you thought that at-
mosphere was made by the Weather Bureau? Tut,
tut! Tom makes it the way the weather sharks
formerly made rain. He is the really truly rival
of Medicine Hat — because he can create atmospheric
chills as well as atmospheric sunshine. I knew him
in the old Nestor days, but he is different now, as
any ambitious, gifted mortal would be who is
given free reign. He spends money on his scenes.
No pasteboard and tinsel for him, but solid, endur-
ing sets that bring reality into the pictures. Brother
Lloyd helps by managing the men with the saws
and the hammers.

But I must not overlook the “big boss,” Eugene
H. Allen, a man who is stocky of build and filled to
overflowing with energy, purpose and resourceful-
ness. He is studio manager. To illustrate the type
of man he is, I may merely say that Mr. Allen takes
his reposeful rests in a high-power motor car!
And Director Walter Edwards was there — an actor
and a producer blended in one. He was working
with Lewis S. Stone and Miss Barriscale. He is a
genuine worker — but, then, who isn’t around Ince-
ville? Here is a hive that harbors no drones. So
tremendously busy are they that handsome Ray-
mond West just nodded the time of day — as though
he were hastening to the shore to repel an attack

of those Spanish Galleons! He began as a camera
man, and was promoted to director, but he has
never forgotten his camera skill. It aids him in
producing those wonderfully clear films of the Ince
trade-mark type. Reginald Barker is anotl . young
Ince director. He looks boyish — but wb; shouldn’t
he? It is easier to generate high-tension power
than wilt in the world of day-dreams. Mr. Barker
is a producer who helps maintain the high Ince
standard. And I saw tall, magnetic House Peters
bending down to emerge from his dressing room —
the same House Peters who was with Famous
Players, California Motion Picture, and Lasky. He
revels in pictures, and his audiences revel in him.

I should like to dwell on the multiple charms of
other Incbvillers and Incevillains, but the sun is
beginning to dip low in the west — like a crimson
stain on the blue waters. I should like to sing the
praises of beautiful Margaret Gibson, little
Elizabeth Burbridge, sterling Margaret Thompson,
fascinating Leona Hutton, bonny Barney Sherry,
gracious G rtrude Claire, talented J. Wesley Gil-
more, forn er Nestor manager — heaven bless the
bunch of ’em.

But they know I have said it all in spirit if not
in the written word, and if it comes from the
heart, what more is needed? You would love them
the same as I, could you hobnob with them beneath
the boughs ! n Inceville, with the Pacific winking
back at you, and the great green hills beaming down
upon the scene. You would be reluctant in depart-
ing, and you would want to stay — and dream the
dreams of Inceville — the dreams that billiard back
to you from the screen. But you would feel the
evening’s coming, and you would look askance at
the red spot in the sea and at the deepening sky,
and you would do what I was forced to do reluc-
tantly — bid a fond farewell to Inceville-by-the-Sea!

Inside a Romance Factory

Part III. My Third and Last Day as a Photoplayer — By Oney Fred Sweet

I T WAS the weather man who cheated me out of
wearing a dress suit on the third day that I
was an “extra” at the Essanay studios. Mr.
Babille had told me I should come next morning
with my best society manners as I was to take
part in a ballroom scene. But then Mr. Babille had
counted on the forecast of "cloudy weather.” 1
had just completed my arrangements for a fit that
would have been sure to have made me exceedingly
popular among the fair movie fans, when Mr.
Babille interrupted:

“Nothing doing on the ballroom stuff today,” he
informed me. “The sky’s too clear. We’re going
to take advantage of it and go out into the country
and get that train holdup we’ve been waiting for.
You’re going to be a bandit today and you’ll find
the property woman ready with your layout.”

We sure were a tough looking bunch of bandits,
too, as they crowded us into an autobus bound for
a strip of railroad track just outside a north Chi-
cago suburb. It almost scared me out every time
I looked at the guy sitting next to me. The movie
stars, making the trip in more luxurious autos,
were not greatly disguised and, when opportunity
offered, I nodded to them as I felt — being a fellow
actor — I had a right to. Dick Travers was wear-
ing a mighty stunning uniform and it occurred to
me that nature had certainly cast him for a leading
man. Somehow I didn’t think I was going to like
him because he was so good looking, but on close
acquaintance I found him a regular fellow. Edna
Mayo was along too and Betty Scott, and Sidney
Ainsworth, and a whole bunch of lesser lights. It
struck me that they all had a pretty good time to-

I took my part as a bandit very seriously, and several
times I asked the director If my Jesse James
expression was suitable

gether during the day’s work, and somehow I fell to
hero worshiping Mr. Calvert, the director.

Mr. Calvert was an old West Point man, I dis-
covered, and he looked the part. After we got
into the woods, and between the taking of scenes,
Mr. Calvert had a habit of unconsciously picking
up stones and bits of wood and hurling them play-

fully at distant objects. I took my part as a bandit
very seriously, and several times I asked the direc-
tor if my Jesse James expression was suitable, and
how he thought the red bandana handkerchief
around my neck would show in the film. It was on
the depot platform at the little town of Niles that
Mr. Calvert came upon me surrounded by a group
oi natives while we were waiting for the train to
come in.

“You better go into the depot with the rest of
the bunch,” he complained. “We don’t care to stir
up any more excitement around here than neces-
sary; we’ll be bothered enough by outsiders, at
best.”

“That’s so,” I says, “if they want to see me any
rno.e they’ll have to wait and pay to see me on the
films.”

Well, you couldn’t blame the natives of that town
for hanging around a bit curious. Imagine it your-
self — being in a quiet little town like that with its
block or two of Main street and seeing a bunch of
wild westerners suddenly alight from taxicabs and
autobusses. Some of the bandits wore red shirts,
wide cowboy hats slouched about their ears, spurs
clicked at their heels, and most of them were
heavily bearded.

Curious small boys of the town hovered in the
door of the waiting room or peeped through the
windows, while their elders stood in groups on the
depot platform allowing that “this here moving
picture business did beat all.”

It was aggravating to me that I didn’t have the
hang of the scenario and therefore could not teli
( Continued on Page 24)

MOVIE PICTORIAL

SMILING MYRTLE STEDMAN

“Nobody has a monopoly on the sunshine, bul
the shadows are over-crowded and over- worked ”

Really, Miss Steelman can cook. .So many very
pretty women can not cook, but Miss Stedman
says, “Dyspepsia is an enemy of smiles, and
smiles are the salt of the earth. Me for the rest-
ful stomach and the smiles.” She knows how to
roll her sleeves up and mix all manner of delight-
ful dishes. She understands her range, and her
cook book, and “makes up a lot out of her head.”
This adds to the attractiveness of her beautiful
home, and adds to her host of friends, who grow
weary betimes of restaurant fare, and long for a
pie like mother was wont to bake.

But Miss Stedman’s talents do not cease there.
She is an honest-to-goodness carpenter, and can
drive a nail better than most actresses can drive
a motor car. She can saw and hammer, and she
helped the mechanics of the Morosco studio in
the construction of certain additions to the plant.
Leastwise, she sawed a board or two — and wasn't
that helping? Her own home has fared well
through her building art, and she no more fears
a carpenters’ strike than she fears shadows.

Her dressing-room reflects her good taste.
There are inglenooks and curtains, and a Japan-
ese teapot and heaven knows what not, besides
the regulation grease paints and powder and
theatrical cold cream.

This begins to look as though Miss Stedman’s
praises had been all sung — but, hold ! “Sung” is
a very good word, because Myrtle Stedman is a
big sister of the thrush, and wouldn’t need to
worry if the picture machines never operated
again. She has a voice — a very beautiful voice,
and long cultivation has made it wonderfully
modulated. She was reared for an operatic
career. When “Wild Olive” was shown in a Los
Angeles theatre, the proprietor requested Miss
Stedman to sing, and she did — at two perform-
ances, charming the audience and bringing forth
unstinted praise from the press. Indeed, she was
in opera, and she. was in stock. But always her
voice was treasured as something precious. And
today it is as wonderful as it was in the days
that were.

“When my fingers rest on the
keys of the piano,” Miss Stedman
confided, “and I begin to sing, all
the fatigue of the day passes.

But it is not wholly because 1
enjoy it, I guess; it gives pleas-
ure to others, and pray, what is
more enjoyable than making
others happy? You see, I belong
to the Smile Club. It is not in
corporated; it has no charter.

But its members are world-wide,
and the membership is growing.

When I was a member of the
Whitney Opera Company in Chi-
cago, I delighted in making peo-
ple happy with my voice. Why
should I be averse to the same
satisfaction now, even if there
are no boxoffice receipts?”

The time came when the “fii-
lums” cast their hypnotic glance
in Miss Stedman’s direction. She
fell under the baneful ban, and
spent many enjoyable months in
the great red-and-green hills of
Colorado — up near the roof of
the world. It didn’t seem like
work. It was different, acting
out in the lonely places, be-
neath the turquoise dome. And
after a time, she ventured a ques-
tion. Said she to Mr. Turner, “Do
you think I will do in pictures?”

And he confessed that she would
do. “Stay as long as you like,”
he told Miss Stedman. “Oh, very
well,” she responded. “I think I
shall stay. I rather like to have
the sky as my proscenium arch.”

Later on, as the star of destiny lured her westward,
she encountered the Bosworth outfit, and played in
Jack London’s “Valley of the Moon,” “Burning Day
light,” “Smoke Bellew,” and others. She had "found
herself,” and all the world knew it. And now her re-
cent Morosco successes, playing opposite George Faw-
cett in “Wild Olive,” and opposite Cyril Maude in
“Peer Gynt,” have proved that Myrtle Stedman
listened correctly to the voice of Opportunity when
she found music in the clicking camera — and realized
that its all-seeing eye is the eye of the world.

She is accomplished — very. She is charming-
exceedingly. She has a way of making pestilential
interviewers feel less of their obtrusive guilt, and
more at home. That of itself is a token of true art,
for an interviewer — well, a cup of steaming tea
broke down the barrier and made us friends.

But let us not overlook Miss Stedman's winning
smile — the smile that buds in the heart and blossoms
on the lips; the perennial flower that distinguishes
this delightful lady and makes us wish to see her
succeed to such a degree that her success will pass
all former boundaries. And — that is the way she is
succeeding, which is a just reward for such a human
actress, whose heart beats with the heart of the
world.

Miss Stedman has made a wonderful impression
in the films. Some actresses from the speaking
stage seem to forget that the screen has its* own
peculiar requirements. They retain their stage
ideas. But Miss Stedman took naturally to the films
and the result is shown in her splendid work. Her
admirers are as countless as the sands, and the
public looks forward to each release in which she
is starred. These facts are attested by her great
volume of correspondence, coming from all parts of
the country, and alive with hearty compliments.
“Whenever I am acting in the studio or out on
locations,” she said, “I feel that my audience is
before me, and that I must be as faithful in my work
as though the millions were present in person, in-
stead of by proxy — the proxy being the camera.”
Miss Stedman’s smile has made her art more endear-
ing, and has increased the number of her admirers.

carpenter, and can drive a nail better than
car: and yet she Is a really-truly, fairy in the
woman who mirrors the details of her environs

She is an honest-to-froodness
most actresses can drive a motor
sylvan scenes of Filmland— a

rhoto t>u Hoover. Los Angeles

There Is a smile In her heart that Illumines the smile on
her countenance

H ER DADDY called her “Smiling Myrtle”
first, and the title endured, as all true titles
must. A cheerful disposition is greater
than vast wealth. It is wealth — something
that panics can not attack, and years can not dim.

Myrtle Stedman — Smiling Miss Stedman — sees
only the sunshine. She refuses to gaze on the shad-
ows, because, as she puts it, “Nobody has a monopoly
on the sunshine, but the shadows are over-crowded
and over-worked.” Which, by the way, explains the
wholesome philosophy of this beautiful star of the
Morosco studios. Her laugh is not made to order —
but like the bright skies of Sunny California, it is
always on duty.

There's a smile in her heart that illumines the
smile on her countenance — and there is a rich love
of humor. Miss Stedman revels in jokes; not the
practical, harmful kind of jests, but the wholesome
ones. To illustrate: In “Wild Olive,” she was play-
ing the part of a dark-haired woman, and her wig
naturally fitted the demands of the character. An
actor, who had recently been annexed to the Morosco
forces, and who had not inquired as to the cast,
remarked to Smiling Myrtle, “I am so glad you are
a brunette; secretly, I detest blondes. I am so sorry
to learn that Miss Stedman is a blonde. How
strange I should dislike them so.”

The next morning, on her way to her dressing-
room, Miss Stedman noticed the open door of the
blonde-hater, and thrust in her sunny head. “Good-
morning, Mr. Brunette-Liker. Don’t you think my
tresses are a nice chestnut shade!” The outspoken
one gasped in amazement. But, quickly recovering
himself, he replied, “I knew you all the time, I really
just wished to get a rise out of you.” He had suc-
ceeded, and he got a unanimous rise out of the entire
company as well — for Miss Stedman can laugh at
a joke on herself as well as she can at one on the
other fellow.

MOVIE PICTORIAL 13

THE CRUISE OF CRUZE AND BRACY

. A Thrilling Cruise, But a Pacific Finish

F ROM ocean to ocean isn’t very far — on the
map. The men who selected the Lincoln High-
way didn’t do their traveling by map. Neither
did Jim Cruze and Sidney Bracy — they of “Mil-
lion Dollar Mystery Fame.” It’s only a year ago
that the “Mystery” films flourished in all their glory.
Jim and Sid have had some glory of their own since
that time.

They had left Salida, Colo., and were motoring
along the skyline of the top o’ the world in the
Rockies. Jim is western bred so the big hills didn’t
give him vertigo. Sid and “Mac” and “Al” were
Bronx-broke, and never saw many mountains higher
than the Catskills, which, as any westerner knows,
are not mountains at all — or a-tall, if it looks better
that way. The mountains Bracy had seen in
Australia, he had forgotten.

“How far is it down- there?” Bracy asked warily
as he measured the distance between the non-skids
and eternity.

“Oh, a mile or so,” Cruze responded non-
chalantly, which is a very good way to respond on
matters of altitude.

"Anybody ever fall over?” Sid queried again, as
he mopped the moisture from his palms. Nobody
should perspire two miles above sea level, and yet
Bracy’s hands were humid.

“Once a fellow fell over,” and Cruze’s mind re-
verted to the old western days when imagination
usurped the place of veracity. “He had a fine kit —
new sweater, a moose-skin cap, a six-gun, other
apparel, and new rubber boots — nice shiny rubber
boots. Well, he lost his balance and down he came.
When he hit, his rubber boots proved their merit.
He bounded back — not all the way. He could almost
reach the ledge, but not quite. Once more he went
into the canyon, and again he bounced up; not so
far as before, though. Each time he bounded, his
case became more hopeless. For three days he
bounced thus.” Jim paused.

“What then?” Bracy asked sympathetically.

“The boys had to shoot him to keep him from
starving to death.”

“Poor devil!” Sid sighed, as he glanced fearfully
into the Valley of the Shadow.

“You don’t believe it, do you?” Mac queried in
derision.

“Oh, no,” Sid admitted with a shiver. “Only, it
helps absorb my thoughts. Go ahead, Jim, and tell
another. This time tell about all the details, each
jump and bound, like; One little, two little, three
little Indians! It will help save dental bills — my
teeth are chattering themselves into fragments.”
Utah is Jim’s home state. He was incorporated
there, so to speak. The only bad feature about
Utah, is that so many persons slander it. Utah
shouldn’t be slandered. It produced Jim Cruze, and
isn’t that redemption enough? Let us prove it.

At Provo, a freckle-faced lad eyed the pair curi-
ously as they drove up before the theater in their
big, mud-spattered car. (Note; We call it “the car.”
Jim and Sid bought it, so we stand pat with ’em in
not advertising its name!)

“Hello, Bud!” Jim shouted to this particular
youth. The boy nodded mournfully.

“Don’t know me, do you?” Cruze persisted. The
boy nodded his head.

“Well, I'm from Utah,” Jim continued. “It’s a
great state, too. Some day you may be a famous
actor like Bracy and I are!”

"Him?” the boy asked, pointing at Sidney.

“Sure, both of us. I was born in Utah.”

“Where was he born?” the kid queried thought-
fully keeping a dexter digit leveled at Bracy.
"Australia,” Jim explained.

“That in Utah, too?”

“Oh, no, Australia is fifteen thousand miles away.”
“No it ain’t,” the lad corrected. “That’d be over
half way around the world and on the way back.
We ain’t all nuts just because we was born in
Utah.”

“That’s the statue of Brigham Young,” said Cruze
proudly, as the party slowed down in the big square
opposite the Temple.

“That guy?” Bracy asked, gazing at the heroic
bronze.

“Had forty wives,” Jim continued proudly.
“Forty!” Sid repeated, holding up all his fingers
and thumbs four times to confirm the estimate.
“Forty!” Jim replied with emphasis. Then notic-

ing tne look of abstraction in Bracy's eyes, Cruze
continued, “Well, why the doubt?”

“Oh, there’s no doubt, Jim,” was Sidney’s re-
joinder, “only I was wondering if those wives were
all leads or if some were only extras!”

Idaho isn’t as thickly populated as the Borough
of Brooklyn, although it takes up a great deal more
space. Bracy refers to it as the “Region of Vast
Silences.” Cruze, being of the West, remembers it
for its Coeur de Alene mining district, a mammoth
producer of silver and lead.

“Why, Sid,” he explained enthusiastically, “that
camp has produced more lead than all of Europe has
used for bullets in its great war — thousands of tons
of lead — and lots of silver; oh, mountains of silver.”
“What kind of silver?” Bracy queried hesitantly.
“What kind of silver? There you go, you tender-
foot; why, there’s just one kind of silver, and that’s
silver, just as there’s one kind of lead. Didn’t think
there were many kinds, I hope !”

“Oh, no, just two kinds of silver, but several kinds
of lead, such as Entente lead, and Ally lead. And,
Jim, considering all the bullet material those mines

produced, I wondered ”

“Wondered what?”

“If they might have produced German silver?”
“Oh, yes,” Cruze responded airily, “about Teu-
ton!”

“Let’s write poetry,” Jim suggested one night in
an Oregon hotel, long after the last show. “We’ll
make up complimentary poems about each other.”
“As you say!” Bracy agreed, sleepily. After some
moments of labor, Cruze straightened up, with
triumph showing in his flashing eyes. As a poet, Jim
is a fine actor. This is what he produced;

Sidney Bracy
From Australia,

Though he’s crazy.

He won’t failya!

“Pretty good,” Sid admitted, “Now, shall I read
mine?”

“Shoot!” Cruze ordered, with the light of triumph
still in his eyes.

This was Sidney’s;

Jimma da Cruze,

Beega da sport,

Drinka da Booze,

By a da quart!

The light of triumph faded from Jim’s eyes. They
were in a dry town! ! !

In a northern California town, a peg-legged man,
with a cannabalistic, cadaverous countenance, plod-
ded after them all day At each show, he occupied
a front seat. On the street his timber prop and one
squeaky shoe thumped behind them doggedly. As
they ate their meals, the sorrowful looking stranger
gazed through the windows at them.

“Poor fellow,”- Sid sighed, “maybe he’s hungry.”
“Likely a stick-up,” Jim suggested in his mysteri-
ous western way. “Probably has a rifle concealed
in his wooden leg. We’d better keep cases on him.”
At each evening performance, he was present,
saying nothing, but watching intently. After the
final act, he thumped along menacingly in their
wake. Plainly, in the vernacular, he “had their
alleys.”

Suddenly Jim turned and faced the decimated
shadow.

“Well?” he asked sharply.

“All’s well!” the peg-legged one replied wearily.
“Then why are you following us?” Cruze de-
manded hotly.

“I have only been waiting to ask you a civil
question," the cripple piped tearfully.

“Fire away!” Cruze commanded.

The peg-legged one cleared his throat nervously.
All day he had awaited this opportunity — bad gone
without food and comfort to enlighten his troubled
mind.

“Well?” Jim prompted impatiently. A wan smile
stole over the Frankenstein-like face.

“I want to know,” the other began hesitantly,
“how long it tuk ya to grow them beautiful whiskers
in Zudory! I’m so damned homely, I’d give this
here other leg to raise a fringe like that to hide
my doggone countenance. Jim Cruze, whiskers is
a great means of beauty. They sure is, Jim.
Whyinell didya ever cut yurn off?”

Autograph friends are numerous. Just what good
an autograph can do — or what harm — neither Cruze

nor Bracy could ever fathom, until that last day
of the coast-to-coast journey shortly after the waters
of San Francisco Bay had greeted them. They had
just completed their toilet in their rooms and
Peggy Snow had gladdened Husband Jim’s heart by
her unexpected but welcome arrival from Los Angeles.

A young man — an apologetic, Sunday-schoolish,
smiling young chap, approached them timidly as
they chatted in the lobby.

“Mr. Cruze?” he asked gently, as he toyed with
a memo book and looked hopeful.

Cruze nodded.

“It’s a foolish request — a common one,” the youth
began, “but I love to collect autographs of great
players. May I have yours?"

Grasping a pencil in his fingers Cruze wrote his
famous J. Hancock on the memo sheet, the young
man bowed and departed and Jim, Peggy and Sid
resumed their conversation.

A clerk approached them hurriedly.

“Mr. Cruze,” he broke in nervously, “did you know
that young man? I hope you didn’t give him your
autograph?”

“Sure, I did. Why? He’s a good kid, isn’t he?”

“He!” the clerk responded in amazement. “Why,
that’s Spencerian Spence, the cleverest forger on the
Coast.”

“I wish I’d known it,” Cruze commented thought-
fully.

“Well, when you open a bank account you’ll know
it, all right,” the clerk replied heatedly.

“Oh, that isn’t the idea,” Cruze corrected hastily.
“He can’t harpoon me that way, but gee! what a
find he’d be as a secretary. Just think! If I sent
him to the telegraph office to send a wire, the fellow
who got it wouldn’t know that I hadn’t written
it!”

And Bracy laughed in both hands, and pretended
he was smothering a sneeze.

The representative of the Company who made the
automobile the actors used, called on them in San
Francisco. He was loud in his praises of the car,
enthusiastic over its splendid condition, and like-
wise hopeful of publicity.

“Few water troubles?” he asked, beaming on the
boys.

“Few,” Jim admitted.

"And not too much outlay for gas?”

“Nope," Biacy agreed.

“Many punctures?”

“Not many.”

“How about blow-outs?"

“Blow-outs !” the pair echoed. “Say, we had ’em
in every town!”

“Oh, well, that’s up to the’ tire company," the
agent mumbled philosophically.

“Tire company?” Bracy chuckled. “The blowouts
we had didn’t seem to tire our company in the least.
And every time we had a blow-out, it was character-
ized by the loud detonations of both Brut and Dry!"

“Well, Jim,” and Sid brushed away a suspicious
globule beneath each eye, “the best pals must part.
Vacationing is over. We’ve seen the breadth of the
U. S. A. Broadway beckons me and the Coast
claims you. As a final act of fraternal affection, I’ll
match you to see who gets the car.”

“Oh, you take it — gwan, take it,” Jim urged.

“No, we’ll match,” Bracy persisted.

“Very well, what’s your choice?”

“Heads,” said Bracy.

Jim extracted a coin from his pocket, and poised
the silver-piece on his thumb.

“Heads, did you say?” and he looked at Bracy
curiously.

Sid nodded his affirmation.

“Oh, I wouldn’t take heads if I were you. No, I
can’t permit you to take heads. Neither will take
heads!" y

“Then how can ope win?” Bracy asked in be-
wilderment.

“It's a two-bit piece, Sid,” Jim replied cordially,
“and we’ll take tails — cocktails,” as he led the march
to the bar. “You see, Sid, that fool agent got stuck
on the old boat, and bought it back for what we paid.
Now we’ll cut the gate, fifty-fifty. We’ll both take
tails, eh? Hey, Mister, make it a Bronx on two —
that’s so homelike!”

And tbe Cruise of Cruze and Bracy ended in a
toast to the Land that Begins where the Sun Comes
Up and Extends to the Sunset Coast.

1

j

MOVIE PICTORIAL

HENRY WALTH ALL - master

EMOTIONALIST

The Fade-out and Fade-In of the Chill and Glow of a Man's
Heart In the Sunshine of a Woman

f E STANDS over six feet and is as hand-

I 1 some as Apollo.” Thus the world passes

[ upon the physical make-up of man. Not
so with talented Henry Walthall, lead in
“The Avenging Conscience” and star and hero in
“The Birth of a Nation.” As one great poet put
it:

“Though I could reach from pole to pole.

And grasp Creation in my span;

I must be measured by my soul —

The mind’s the standard of the man.”

Henry Walthall is not tall, and he does not
claim to be handsome. But there is a light of the
superman, the beam of genius, that illumines his
countenance and makes him different and far
superior. He has that wonderful dynamic “some-
thing that, for want of a better name, we call
magnetism. His presence radiates from the screen,
and yet that presence dovetails so nicely into the
theme of the story and the cast and the action
and the beauty of the play, Henry Walthall has
taken his place as the dramatic criterion of the
screen. He does not admit it. He may not even
think it. Henry Walthall is modest and unobtru-
sive. Acting art, as applied to the photographic
drama, has suited his special adaptabilities.

Those who have seen the two great Griffith
plays recognize that Henry B. Walthall is distinc-
tive in his interpretative art. When David Wark
Griffith first met this young actor at the Biograph
studio, the great producer recognized the genius
that awaited molding for the topmost plays on
the screen. And yet Henry Walthall did not go
into pictures and remain with them. Indeed, he
might never have taken up films for his work had
it not been for James Kirkwood. They had been
together in stock for several seasons, and both
being quiet, thoughtful men, their friendship was
natural and durable. Then came the Summer with
its stage holiday, and Henry Walthall had little
to do. Through the persuasion of Mr. Kirkwood,
he visited the Biograph studios and watched the
filming of a play in which Mr. Kirkwood was act-
ing. Mr. Walthall studied the direction and the
work of the cast. It was then that Mr. Kirkwood
introduced the future great star to Mr. Griffith,
and there is no question that Kirkwood put in
many elaborate “asides” that started Griffith
thinking about the possibilities of this stranger.

The appearance of these new features on the
screen was a fact that was noted and commented
on favorably by picture patrons. The question
began to circulate throughout the land: "Who is

this new picture actor?” Pew knew his name, and
the company he was with did not lavish advertis-
ing on its stars, nor did Walthall himself crave
publicity. He did not understand the value of its
purport. After more work on the legitimate stage,
he returned to the Biograph and became associated
with Griffith. Time and again these associations
were severed through the trend of events, but the
magnetism of both men drew them together re-
peatedly, and the friendship that was begun
ripened into mutual admiration. They respected
each other. They have never been niggardly or
backward about heaping praise upon each other’s
heads, and yet they have not been in each other’s
company as much as one might suppose.

“The Birth of a Nation” was Henry Walthall’s
big play. He will have other big plays in the
future, and through the vehicle of that master of
production, Mr. Griffith, Walthall found himself,
and wherever these films have been shown there
was always one name on the lips of those who
viewed the play — Walthall. Every emotion that
can be found upon the strings of human sympathy
have been brought into action by this star in
“The Birth of a Nation.” Happiness, hope, despair
grief, determination, tenderness, belief, invention,
satisfaction, organization, revenge, love, hatred—
these and a thousand other reflections of the soul
are to be found in Mr. Walthall’s part. And in
the expression of each emotion and each mental
change will be found the indelible imprint of genius.
We do not say that it is Mr. Walthall's eyes, or his

expressions, or his dramatic action, or any other
single thing that makes him what he is. It is all
of these talents working in unison. If you were
to stand back quietly in the Essanay studio and
watch Henry B. Walthall at work, you would realize
at once that he had shut out all of the rest of the
world. He lives each second before the camera and
what he lives is explained by the part he plays.
Many aspiring screen actors shout and talk and
babble as though a multitude had gathered before
them. The words that Mr. Walthall speaks are
generally inaudible. He has stilled vocal action.
He is speaking the words in his mind as though he
feared his voice might disturb him.

Henry Walthall is a Southerner and it is natural
that he should possess certain Southern characteris-
tics, prominent among which is his inborn pride.
He resents uncouth familiarity which strikes a dis-
cord in his nerves. He never thrusts himself upon
any one. He feels that he should be privileged to
select his own companions and decide on his own
friends. If you have seen Mr. Walthall in "The
Birth of a Nation,” you could not help feeling the
slow anger that kindled within him when his kin
suffered insolence. You could sense that gentleness
and tenderness of his nature, as though his opinions
would prove incorrect. As these tragic facts drilled
deeper within him and he cogitated the insults in
the moments of his calm meditation, the fire of
anger would burn more brightly — not the sputter-
ing or red flame that is so commonly seen in the
emotional work of the films — not like the crackling
wood-fire, but rather the slow, steady, intense, even
heat of the coal fire’s glow, until the red turns to
cherry and the cherry to white.

I T IS not remarkable that Henry Walthall does
not appreciate his own genius. True genius never
appropriates unto itself the fame that must be de-
cided by others. It is too busily engrossed in its
own affairs. Art can not stop to worry about the
world. If the world decides later on to gaze and
admire and become enraptured, well and good. But
the world must not worry a genius. It must let him
go his way, because what he does is natural to him.
It is part of him. It is something that has entered
into the weave of the warp and woof of his being.
There were times, when the Photoplayers’ Club of
Los Angeles was at its height of popularity, that
Mr. Walthall would saunter into its seclusion, meet-
ing his friends and acquaintances and modestly sit
at a table while the others babbled their fleeting
opinions. Some would sing and some would recite.
Some would engage in oratorical fights. One day,
they prevailed upon Walthall to aid in the enter-
tainment. He obliged with “The Day it Rained.”
A silence fell upon the assemblage like a benediction
at eventide. Those who heard, felt and shared the
sorrows of the man who loved and lost. His own
well-modulated voice was in marked contrast to the
more vociferous efforts of the others.

When one thinks of that voice, it is not difficult
to understand Walthall’s success on the speaking
stage. A perfect delivery, clear enunciation, rich
sympathy, and the mastery of dramatic interpreta-
tion were all blended in the words that Walthall
spoke. There is that minor touch of a Southern
accent, which was his true heritage and dates back
to the days when his folk were cotton planters in
Alabama. The Alabama estate is still there and
sentiment counts it part of the family possession.
Some day Walthall will return to the old mansion
under the Southern skies. In these environs, he spent
his childhood, and here it was that he and his
brothers and sisters were educated under a private
tutor, many miles separating them from other hab-
itations. He was eighteen years of age before he
ever saw the interior of a theater. Once he had
viewed the art behind the glow of the footlights,
he was determined on his career. Walthall’s mother
looked askance upon her son’s histrionic ambitions.
Indeed, he may never have taken up a stage career
had it not been for the fortuitous outbreak of the
Spanish-American dispute. He enlisted in a
southern regiment and journeyed as far as Florida,
where fever took him and spared him from the firing

MOVIE PICTORIAL

line. But during the days of his convalescence, the
theater proved more alluring than ever.

The time came when Mr. Walthall’s mother was
taken away. Then he bid farewell to the old

Southern mansion and turned his face toward the
great metropolis, whence had come wondrous stories
of the Great White Way and its marvelous array of
playhouses. The words of the immortal Shakes-
peare echoed and re-echoed in his ears: “The play’s

the thing.”

It was in New York that he met the manager of
the Murray Hill Stock Company and was given a
small part. That was all Mr. Walthall really

wanted, and from that time on he continued to
climb. He joined one stock company after another,
doing his share of the one-night stands and often
six different plays a week. But this all has to do
with the speaking stage, and perhaps that is not
really what we wish to hear. It is interesting, how-
ever, to note that he was with Henry Miller for
four years, appearing in London with that great,

well known star in “The Great Divide.” This was
between engagements at the Biograph. Fate had
decreed that this should be the “great divide” and
that beyond it must lay his unbroken film career.

Since joining the films, Mr. Walthall has been
with the Biograph, Reliance, Balboa and the
Essanay — the latter alliance being of recent date.
During his screen career, he has given the world
some wonderful pictures, including not only those
to which allusion has already been made, but also
through his Hollofernes in “Judith of Bethulia;” as
Strongheart, the Indian, in “Ramona;” in “Home,
Sweet Home;” in the Ibsen dramas put on at the
Reliance studios. In “Ghosts,” his acting was a
study and carried with it such pronounced dramatic
emotion, it did not seem to be a thing of this world
at all. It breathed horror % which means the very
frontier of dramatic art.

Henry B. Walthall has fared very well materially.
He owns property in California, Alabama, Florida
and New York. Nor does he desert the call of the

gods of recreation. With rod and reel, he seeks
the quiet places where he may meditate while the
wary fish nibble furtively at his bait. He reads
good books, and is passionately fond of music. He
loves the quiet, the refined and beautiful; and yet,
in no sense is he esthetic. He is rather easy-going
and believes that everything will happen in its own
good time. Henry Walthall is a gentleman. It
might be said that he is a gentleman of the old
school, although his dramatic work is up to the
greatest requirements of the present day. His con-
nection with Essanay auger still greater things.
In “Temper” and “The Woman Hater,” Mr. Walthall
has already forecast what successes he will achieve
in his Essanay roles. He has found a permanent
place in the esteem and affections of the public, and
he has established new standards. In the screen
art, Henry B. Walthall is admittedly the greatest
exponent of the silent drama, beyond which we be-
lieve no other compliment is necessary.

Salisbury Wild Life Pictures

E DITOR’S NOTE—
This is the second
of a series by ihe
famous cinema-
tographer of wild ani-
mal life. The Salisbury
pictures constitute one
of the most important
contributions io natural
history in a generation.
They surpass all former
nature studies in that
they show wild life in
motion. Every school
boy and girl should agi-
tate for the Salisbury
pictures at the local pie-
tureplay house; they
will be enjoyed as much
by grown-ups.

T HE Rainbow trout is
a very elusive and
extremely active member
of the restive finny tribe,
and in taking motion
pictures of these Cali-
fornia mountain-stream
natives, we have numer-
ous exciting experiences.

They are big fellows,
these Rainbow speci-
mens, and some of them
grow to a weight of thir-
ty-five pounds — tempta-
tion for the most ardent
angler. The Rainbow
trout is more highly col-
ored than his cousin, the Steelhead, and indeed the
latter shows decidedly human vacation characteris-
tics, taking to the salt water once each year, but
returning to its natal fresh water to spawn. On the
other hand, the Rainbow trout has naught in common
with the brine, and is found only in lakes or streams
that have no direct connection with the ocean. This
may read distractingly technical, but there is some-
thing in wild-life that is akin to the balance of us
mortals — and who can know too much about nature?

Upon investigating the habits of the trout family,
I found Mr. and Mrs. Rainbow returning to the same
stream as high as ten years in succession — produc-
ing the while their own chromatic counterparts.
You may doubt that one can recognize a fish, or be
on speaking terms with it for ten years. But the
Government Inspectors do not depend on their mem-
ory for faces; they place metal tags in the fins of
these beauties — and the tags tell their tales of visi-
tation. In approaching the stream, these fish usually
appear above the falls, by climbing natural steps, or
ladders, or by means of the artificial ones con-
structed by the Fish and Game Commission. Some
of the fish, and especially the salmon, are so strong
that they are able to swim “uphill,” right through
the falling water. Such speed is back of their efforts,
they frequently shoot several feet in the air after
gaining the top of the cataract.

It is a difficult task to secure clear pictures of
these denizens of the water. I have seen thousands

Not alone on land, on sea. In the air, has the clicking camera projected Its force, but even Into the realm of the finny tribe

of these trout plainly, and yet the camera has been
incapable of catching the movements of their shin-
ing bodies. The trap-houses, in which we impound
these fish, cause these huge congregations. But
when the fish were taken from these traps, to be
spawned artificially, we secured some most remark-
able pictures, which, I believe, are the first of the
kind ever taken. Many folk have told me that they
had no idea that fish could be forced to propagate —
but the truth remains, and students will find much
to contemplate in looking into the details of this
important industry. The moving picture has brought
wild-life into our very homes — at our threshholds,
and has invited us to know the nature of which we
are a part. The wilds are robbed of their mysteries,
and nature is made to divulge her innermost secrets,
that have all the while been awaiting the scientific
command of man.

It happens sometimes that some strange incident
— one, perhaps that may not be duplicated in a
thousand years— presents itself to the cinemato-
graphic scientist. But so small a thing as a tiny drop
of water or a grass-blade on the lens may ruin this
solitary chance to picture a deep secret of the wilds.
Once, after making the most careful preparations
to procure pictures of mallard ducks, we learned,
upon examining the films, that a splash of water
across the lens had ruined the day’s most alluring
and unusual work. Yet my camera-men had been
careful — had taken all precautions — all but foresee-

ing the water-splash that
screened from the view
of men some of the
most striking truths
about these beautiful
feathered creatures.

It is not the water-
drop or the dust-fleck
that works all the mis-
chief; ofttimes the me-
chanical clicking of the
camera will set the in-
habitants of the wilds
scurrying, swimming or
flying to cover. Still,
great good fortune has
attended our efforts.
Who would believe that
mortal man could get
within three feet of a
living, alert mallard? I
did it — and we could
easily have filmed sev-
eral hundred more feet
of these suspicious
birds.

You, who view the
Salisbury pictures on
the screen, see only the
snappy incidents. Hun-
dreds of thousands of
feet of film have been
taken in order to get the
“big moments,” and but
a fragment of the whole
has been shown. The
picture audience de-
mands everlasting
change. One second of tarrying will cause shuffling
of feet and yawns. The audience, I venture with all
respect, is as difficult to please as the wild game!

I feel that I have succeeded when I hear folk in
the theatre say that they could have watched much
more of my sort of films. Like the temperate meal,
it satisfies, but leaves a yearning for more of the
same kind. But to surfeit the public! That is a
different thing.

In our jaunts through mountains and woodland,
we became careful students of nature — the good
nurse that leads us all, be we human or “lower,"'
through the mesh of experience. We learned many
interesting things about these little folk of the wild.
We learned when and where and why the birds were
to be found in their nests — and the most favorable
conditions for these original monoplanes. We
learned why mallards construct their homes in hay-
stacks, and why mud-hens build their nests on the
surface of swamps. Thousands of details came be-
fore our notice — and always we found that these var-
ious tribes of streams, air or wood, had a sort of
organization — like monarchies or republics, inde-
pendent of the greater governments of men. And
we found, too, processes of thought in many of these
“lower animals,” showing that we of human form-
have not monopolized the powers of Creation. And
I am sure that you will think of these truths when
you view “Salisbury Wild Life” on your home-
theatre screen. (To be continued.)

I

16 MOVIE PICTORIAL

THE GIRL IN THE PATHE

By LLOYD KENYON JONES

VIII

S ERGEANT JERRY McGUIRE stood on the
portico of the Tivoli hotel and clapped his
I hands lustily. Jerry was not encoring an act;
he was attempting to lure a cochero from the
lazy shade of the palms that skirt the drive above
De Lesseps Park, and pursue a vanishing landeau
that even now was swinging zigzag fashion into
Panama's Avenida Central.

“Dammaeussedspiggoti!” McGuire breathed hotly
and peevishly, as he fanned the tropic flush from
his inflamed features. “They never want to carry
just one — and me willin’ and glad to pay four-bits
silver a mile! Gawd, such bustlin’ enterprise!”

In the speeding coach that the officer watched in
anguish were Grace Mollaine and Vivian Sinclair,
frightened suspects, madly in love — not with men;
heaven forbid! In love with the ambition to escape.
Since that terrible “murder watch” had reappeared,
and the Star and Herald and the Journal had com-
mented on it freely, the hapless ladies were the
most talked-about persons on the Isthmus — always
steeped in plot, intrigue and tragedy, but welcoming
each new morsel with a hunger that knew no sat-
isfaction. A block or two along the main thorough-
fare of Panama, the coach did a customary thing
for a Panamanian vehicle: It collided with another

coach, and lost one wheel in the impact. Vivian
and Grace were pitched headlong to the rough pave-
ment, and there they lay — crumpled little heaps of
suffering femininity, that most any gallant on earth
would have paid a king’s ransom to rescue. It was
thus that Sergeant McGuire found them a few
seconds later, and a sense of pity almost mastered
his regard for duty.

“Poor dears,” he muttered, glad to know that Mrs.
McGuire was in distant New Orleans and couldn’t
hear his blubbering pity. "Poor dears, mebbe they
ain’t so bad as I’ve pictured ’em.” Tenderly, he
gathered Grace in his arms and placed her in his
waiting coach. Then he picked up Vivian with
equal tenderness, and found time a moment later to
shake a hard, round fist at the gaping, jabbering
natives — sprinkled with the ample ebony of
Jamaican and Barbadian origin.

"Them bloody blacks,” Jerry mused, “talks like
a lot o’ English lords — landlords! Happy the day
English landlords ain’t black, or how in blazes would
me kin pot ’em on a stormy night in Ireland? But,

still, as regards their hearts, them English is ”

“Beggin’ your pawdon, sir," one of the blacks bel-
lowed, as he hastened to the vehicle. "Hi found
this ’ere on the pave, sir; hit may be himportant!”
Jerry gazed steadfastly at the negro with the cockney
accent, and shook his head sadly, forgetting thanks
and other gratuities. The language of the Ethiope
was beyond him. Then he turned his eyes to the
bit of paper that was in his hands. It was a cable-
gram from the States! It was addressed to Miss
Mollaine and contained the single word, "Flee.”

“It makes a noise like a bed-bug,” McGuire whis-
pered whimsically, as he knit his troubled brows
and pondered what idiot could be paying six dollars
and eighty-five cents for one word “flee.” While thus
musing, the coach made a sharp turn that nearly up-
set the already dishevelled occupants, and began the
climb back along Balboa Road to the big govern-
ment hotel in Ancon.

The young ladies had opened their eyes curiously
before they had reached the Tivoli, and stared in
open amazement at Jerry. They were so bewildered
and hysterical, the policeman almost forgot his fine
philosophy about beautiful women. The fight was
gone out of them. They were little and shrinking
and very helpless, and that is a fearful combination
for a policeman to solve. Jerry swallowed vainly
at a huge, aching lump in his throat, but the more
he swallowed, the larger the lump became. Then he
blinked very hard and made a resolution — which
he carried into effect next day. He would be done
with this gum-shoeing; he would question the young
ladies ingenuously, and be out in the open with his
tactics.

Vivian and Grace were seated on the rear veranda
the following afternoon, pretending to read, but
really whispering feverishly, and they looked up
helplessly as McGuire approached them in an awk-
ward, quasi-official manner.

"Now,” he began slowly, for all the world the way
a hungry cat might address a captive mouse, “we
are goin' to be good frens. What do you know
about the Conway killin’, eh? Where was ye on
the night o’ the murder — but, remimber, annything
you state may be used agin you! By the by, do you
mind a puff o’ smoke? I have here a rare Dago
cheroot that I fain wouljl burn. Thank ye. Now,
let us proceed:- You had Miss Conway’s watch!
You tried to thrun it in the ocean; a guy named
Muldoon says as how he was holdin’ out of his hand
a-feelin’ for rain, when you drops the bauble over-
board, and he catches it. I believe him. There ain’t
nothing agin Mike Muldoon, except his likin’ for
tropic rum. Apart from that, he’s a gentleman an'
a scholar. Young ladies, take one careful look at
this watch.” Whereat Jerry McGuire withdrew the
trinket from his pocket, and both young ladies gazed
hypnotically, squealed in a minor key and promptly
fainted. Truly, it was exasperating. It was annoy-
ing to be so near to the truth, and then have the
poor girls flop over senseless. McGuire was un-
accustomed to quarry of a Dresden China strain. It
was beyond him. The kind of women he was wont
to interview would have cursed him roundly, and
made him feel at home. Also, he would have an-
swered them unabashed.

It was days later when the girls opened their eyes
to the world of reason. They were in nice, white,
little cots in Ancon hospital, and a mad fever was
spending itself in their frail bodies. Uncle Sam had
stepped in, and there was no more of the third
degree to annoy them. Their records had been
traced, and those records were immaculate. Nor
did the young ladies want for attention; every
doctor attached to the hospital was imbued only
with the idea of serving them. • They were more
secure than they would have been in their own
homes. And yet, as soon as they were able to travel,
they were bound on a dangerous mission; they
were on their way to London to offer their services
to the Red Cross.

IX

E TIENNE LE CROIX had a strange ague when he
learned that the boat on which he and Jack
Randley and Billy Mumford had shipped, was a
blockade runner. The little Frenchman had vague,
but thrilling, mind pictures of German submarines.
He had no taste for boats that could stick their
eyes out of the water and then sneeze a torpedo
into the hold of a contraband-laden ship, and par-
ticularly when that ship had a cargo of deadly ex-
plosives — sufficient, in fine, to blow a good-sized
island from the sad, blue sea into the valleys of the
moon.

“Eeet eez what — ah, la — what ze gran’ American
generail say — Mistair Sherman — about war. He
was eorree’. Do I so much as light a cigarette — -
bah, comes ze captain, lookin’ dagger ! ’We blow r
up! Pouf!’ he say. Well — some day — some day —
mebbe we get ze feet on land. Oh, ze beautiful
land — la!”

Randley smiled wanly. He was beginning to
accept Fate as Fate is— without asking questions.
After all, how did he know that the Girl in the
Pathe would beam on him after all these hair-
brained escapades? Perhaps they would meet in —
well, let us say heaven. And again, maybe they
wouldn’t. From the best authorities, Jack felt that
heaven held no corner lots for the idle rich. He
was not deserving of any girl. He was a twenty-
four karat hobo, and he knew it. He was a high-
class tramp, living on what he had no right to own
— if stories of the origin of the family fortune could
be credited — and expecting a beautiful girl to trust
him for life.

A deafening roar assailed his ears. He jumped
so far and so fast, he was at the rail before he
knew it. Etienne was crumpled near the cabins,
praying. A submarine greeted them from port. A
solid shot from an eight-inch gun had been sent
across the tramp steamer’s bows. The jig was up.
They were captives. Etienne Le Croix was beyond
words. The worst he had imagined, had occurred.
He was limp and helpless. Walking was quite be-
yond him. How could he ever get to the life-boat,
even if he had a chance? Billy Mumford saw the
poor little detective and took pity. He gathered

Le Croix in his arms, and started toward the rail,
undecided whether to save his charge or pitch him
overboard. Billy was heartily sick of the whole
affair, but he had himself to thank, and he knew it.
Gluttony had caused him to smother a lie in the
beginning, and now what were his prospects of
eating? Well, he had Le Croix, and likely all our
forebears were cannibals. As that horrible thought
raced through Mumford's mind the little sleuth
kissed Billy's hand. Le Croix was dropped heart-
lessly to the deck. The shock was too great for
Mumford. He might eat a man, but kiss him,
never!

“It’s the boats,” the captain cried hoarsely, a
white terror showing through his bronzed skin.
The crew, with equally blanched faces, stood by.
The game was done. The promised prize money
would never be paid. The tramp steamer would
shortly be atomized. And — it was! With food and
water, the crew and their hapless guests pulled to
sea, and were permitted to progress a thousand
yards before the torpedo was fired. How they saved
their eardrums or kept from capsizing, were ques-
tions they did not dare answer. A sheet of flame
shot skyward, and the roar was beyond all sounds
they had ever heard — if it was hearing. Sound was
surely not like this earth-and-sea-upsetting shock!
A rain of shrapnel (furnished by the fragments of
the ship) fell all around them, and a miniature
tidal wave caught them on its crest and carried
them three hundred yards at top speed. Then the
sea closed in on the hole, and nature began to smile.
The submarine had vanished beneath the surface
turmoil, and was bound for new adventures.

Twenty hours later, the men were picked up by
a trawler, but they found scant sympathy in Eng-
land. Gun-cotton was too precious these stirring
days! It was a pretty mess. Randley and Mumford
were without funds, without friends, without every-
thing except Le Croix. He would be with them
always.

"It's a deuce of a fix. Jack,” Billy commented, as
the three of them paused in Trafalgar Square.
Billy’s belt was jerked up to the final notch. For
one who loved food so keenly, this was punishment
indeed.

“We’ve got to do something, Jack,” Billy per-
sisted. “What shall we do? Ah, I have it! We’ll
take Etienne, here, and find a job for him as chef.
He can support us until we get money from home.”

“Ze cook — bah! I, ze proud detective? I, ze
great American detective — I ”

An ample hand was placed roughly on Le Croix's
yielding shoulder. He gazed fearfully into the
graven features of a broad-beamed, sinister per-
sonage — one of the Scotland Yard ilk. The trium-
verate of unfortunates were under arrest — as sus-
pects.

Weeks passed. The American ambassador refused
at first to listen to the tales of Randley or Mumiord.
Their records looked bad. They were adventurers
— and, besides, the ambassador knew a little of the
inside history, and he was obligating a certain
American family that had been unduly annoyed by
"Madcap Jack Randley,” as (hey put it. The ex-
perience was embarrassing, and it was wearing.
At the same time, it was good for the soul, and good
for the body. Mumford was a great admirer of
simple fare before two weeks had passed. His rising
girth had been checked; he was getting back to
nature.

A letter was delivered to Jack one morning. It was
postmarked New York. This is what it contained:
“Mr. Randley:

As a gentleman, desist. Your quest is
hopeless. You are a blunderer and an ass.

The girl you seek is beyond you, quite.

Join a convenient army and if you can’t win
a cross, get killed, and oblige.

An Outraged Family.”

Jack smiled grimly, yet there was no laughter in
his heart. He was a blunderer and an ass. He
knew it. For the first time in months, he felt
heartily ashamed. He would join an army — any
army. Maybe he could get himself killed. While
he cogitated these cold thoughts, his vision rested
on Le Croix. He would trick the diminutive
detective into the army. If Randley must be a
sacrifice, then Etienne Le Croix would also be

offered up on the altar of heroism! The thought
cheered Randley immeasurably. It Is not good to
die among strangers.

X

B ILLY MUMFORD coaxed Randley to show him
the note. Billy read it critically and frowned.
Knowing more about the situation than his friend,
he purposed to permit no war perils to enter into
their worries. There was trouble enough as it was.
Therefore, Billy resorted to strategy. He would
leave no stone - unturned to avoid the tragedy of
battle. Fighting men against whom he bore no
animosity, was not to his liking. Mumford’s great-
grandmother on the paternal side of the house, was
Italian. She married a Frenchman; their daughter
had been wedded to a German. On the maternal
side, there was Russian blood and there was Eng-
lish blood. Well, there was a strain of Austrian
somewher^, too! How could he divide his sympa-
thies? When the Alliance lured, the Entente held
back! Besides, Billy wasn’t a fighting man!

Money finally came from the States; not much
money, but a few hundred dollars. Then the author-
ities relented — at the ambassador’s request — and
the prisoners were released. The air, fog-laden
though it was, seemed sweet. Liberty was precious,
and particularly after their harrowing experiences.

“I say, Jack,” Billy began strategically, as soon
as they were at large, ‘‘I have an idea. But to work
out that idea will require a week; ten days possibly.

MOVIE PICTORIAL

I must be trusted implicitly during that period.
Now, to make my plans a success, we must lie low.
I propose a suite of rooms in some quiet place,
where we may feel secure from intrusion. No, just
a moment, fellows! This is a plan to terminate the
war!” Mumford averted his gaze. He neglected to
explain that it was their war he would terminate.

The very thought of being an international hero
caused Randley’s chest to bulge. How sweet is
Fame, even in prospect ! Etienne Le Croix sighed
sadly. “Ees ze plan safe?" he queried tremulously.
“Very!” Billy responded with gusto. “La!” Etienne
gurgled, grasping Mumford’s right hand and kissing
it rapturously.

“Nix! Nix!” Billy bellowed. Some day that
good right hand would crush the breath out of the
impetuous sleuth-hound.

“Oh, I know ze good hide-out,” Le Croix con-
fided. “Eet ees ze side-street — a beeg — what you
call, ze family hotel. Shall we go see it?” The
others agreed.

The hostelry was not prepossessing, but it was
suitable. Its patrons were rather under the middle-
class; a trifle scurvy, perhaps, but at least unob-
trusive. The food was coarse, but wholesome and
plentiful, and the landlord asked no questions. One
might have fancied that every one in the hotel was
hiding out. A few of the roomers looked mangy,
and one had bad eyes — watery, red-rimmed eyes
that might have come from too much rum or con-
siderable weeping.

17

The third day, Etienne rushed into their living
room quite out of breath. He held a finger to his
lips cautioningly.

“Ze meestery!” he whispered excitedly. “Ze gran’ .
meestery! Hush! Ze girl! She lives across ze
court!”

“What girl?” Jack queried tremulously. “What
girl, Etienne? Speak!”

“Ze girl — ah, la, la — in ze Pathe!”

“The deuce you say!” and Billy and Jack gazed
at each other in stupid amazement. “Where?” Jack
questioned anxiously.

“Across ze street! Honest, true! I see her, and
oh, ze uzzer beautiful girl — um! Zey so sad — oh,
so sad !”

“Let’s go find ’em!” Randley was vibrant with his
awakened amour. So, at last, in the heart of
London, they were to meet! Mumford was equally
anxious but displayed less fervor. He had his mis-
givings.

The street on which their hotel was situated, was
extremely narrow. It would have been a scant alley
in America. The building across the way was squat
and ugly, with two slender windows on the second
floor and a double door on the ground floor, that
gave the structure the appearance of a grotesque,
staring, impudent face. How any such divine crea-
ture as the girl could find solace in a house of such
evil aspect, was beyond Randley’s understanding.
Nevertheless, he was not hinging his hope on a
(Continued on page 25)

TKp T rv c f By mildred waska

XXL V. — ' J. — 4 v_x O L X L X V 1 With Decorations by Herself

EXTRACTING THE HUMOR MINORS FROM THE TRAGEDY MAJORS

T

'HE day of miracles still lives around the corner.
Theda Bara in five parts! (Would ya balieve
it?) Was it a dime museum performance or
just Theda Bara on screen parade? LADY
AUDLEY’S SECRET.
Some poor neglected
skeleton escaped from
the family closet when
the key-hole wasn’t
plugged up. And they
forgot to hang up the
sign: “NO CHILDREN
ADMITTED.” Over went
my dime, in went I. Talk
about subterranean darkness! While floundering
for a seat, I obstructed someone’s view — a voice
like a fog horn yarped: “Say

kid, is your father a glazier?"

Sceered? I meant to drop down
into a seat in a hurry but missed
my guess — and the seat, too —
and flopped on the floor with a
thump (good thing I wasn't made
of glass).

By the time I collected my
equilibrium and all my belong-
ings that got away from me
like the big fish we hear about,

I was ready to gaze at Theda
Bara in 5 parts. No such luck!

She came along the beach to hear what the wild
waves were saying, but instead, saw
her father trying to walk straight
bringing home a bun — for break-
fast. Water, water everywhere and
yet the lake was dry. She popped
her eyes and gave a good imitation
of the Campbell Kid dolls — then
when she got through popping them,
went to help her father home. Man-
like he wanted to carry the bun alone and while
they squabbled, a Don Quixote came to talk peace.

They got rid of the ^

father, and hatched up a
love affair. She didn’t
want to marry him be-
cause she couldn’t take
her father with her into
society. But she did! I
mean she married. That
was the “first part.” A
year later the father was
still bringing home buns
and Theda was arbitrat-
ing with the infantry — I mean she was rocking the
baby to sleep. The husband was out of a job —

Theda B* yh

in 5 ]wts.

She was human.

Ca.'my^elU
Ktt Eyes.

r e<*.ce

Tit.

poor but proud, who would rather go to Australia
to hunt gold than work his rich father for money.
Out there, all he could wash was his hands be-
cause there wasn’t any gold to wash. He wrote
home to Theda, but her father used the letters for
fuel. One day when she sat in the kitchen crying
for her husband, her father told her to quit snivel-
ing and go to work to earn money. She
did all of that.

Now for the 3rd part. She
enlisted as a private secretary
for Sir Audley, made a mash
on him and completed the job
by marrying him. And where
was her first husband? In
Australia fighting the hook
worm. He found a wad of
Quit SmveU'nv ! sold while he was delirious
J " and started back to the land of
neutrality to find his wife and chee-ild. His old
college chum met him and told him his wife
belonged to another—

(them was crewel
woids). Theda had a
maid that looked just
like her — not that it
was her fault, but any-
way, the maid died.

There was Theda’s ? ^

chance to play her card. SU>yiT>9 tH<? riiy ■
She put her wedding

ring on the maid’s finger to bluff the people into
believing that the maid was herself. Then the
husband wouldn’t know she
was alive and married to
Sir Audley. Catch a man
not finding things out!
What he didn’t know, his
college friend told him, be-
cause he happened to be-
long to Sir Audley. He
— called on his wife at Aud-
"Kidlinj Vin, in tV - ,e >’ Court and she got so
■"'ll. excited — “I saw her smile,

although her eyes were
only smudgy tears, and then she swished her
swirling arms and wagged her gorgeous ears. She
sobbed a blue and green checked sob and wept
some purple tears.”

Rather than have her second husband find out
her secret that she had another husband, she pushed
him into the well. Well, well, well! Wasn't that
fierce? Once more the secret was hers, but it
began to fray at the edges. Soon it became frazzled
when the college chum butted in and wanted to

know where the first husband was. Was he still
in the well? (Not on week days.) The butler
hauled him out so they could have fresh drink-
ing water. He left town and all he left behind
were his best regards.

The college chum told Theda
he would squeal on her if she
didn’t tell her secret to Sir
Audley. Curses! The mere
thought of spoiling her secret
made her mind skid and she
went crazy. Dressed in black
she went to the well to die.
What did the poor well do to
deserve such treatment? She
died just in time. Just then
her first husband came along with the chum and
saw her keel over. But she died when they
reached he r — not
because they reached
her — but the husband
said to the chum: “Let
her rest in pieces — I
mean peace, why pick
on her now? Let her
be buried as Lady
Audley. (A nice way
of getting out of the
burying expenses.)

He didn’t want to raise Jv,e
his boy to be a soldier — his family tree would
leave — and he didn’t tell us where he was going,
but he was on his way, and — just then somebody
knocked the ink well over.

Thereby

hangs

the

tail.

TUll

EDITOR’S NOTE: — Miss Waska will continue to
enlighten us, from issue to issue on the current thrills
of the screen.

1

18 MOVIE PICTORIAL

Natural Bessie Barriscale

“An artist must absolutely know how to carry himself, how to dress,
the proper use of his eyes and his hands, or he can never be
anything else but someone else mixed with himself, so to speak”

B ESSIE BARRISCALE, the accomplished New
York Motion Picture star, is the embodiment
of the NATURAL school of acting. Being
natural is almost a cult with her; she is her-
self in private life, while on the screen she is the
artist — she lives the part that she portrays.

She owes this
largely to' the advice
of one of the greatest
actors of all time,

Louis James, who
took a great fancy to
the bright little act-
ress when she was
emerging from the
child actress to the
more matured artist.

He said to her, “Eliza-
beth (he never called
her Bessie) you are
leaving me and I am
sorry, for I have
watched you careful-
ly. Remember, my
dear, do not lose
your naturalness, and
you will be popular,
for you are naturally
clever. That is all,
but I conjure you to
bear my words in
mind.”

Miss Barriscale
never forgot what
James had said, and
whenever she found
herself “acting,” she
remembered and took
herself to task. Here is the charm of Bessie
Barriscale — truth to life. This was never more
evident than in “The Cup of Life,” the first big
picture she acted in for the New York Motion
Picture Corporation and the photoplay which se-
cured her a long-time contract with a regal salary.

There is nothing of the actress about this charm-
ing woman in private life or in her dressing room;
it is only on the stage that she is anything other
than the altogether nice lady she really is. Her
home at Santa Monica is homey and there do con-
gregate some equally likeable people who find the
latch-string loosened, and who appear with none of
the flippant finery of pretense.

N OW Miss Barriscale has a manager and a good
one, too — her husband, by the way; and he is
known as Howard Hickman, one of the best screen
actors of the day and one of the most pleasant of men.

Miss Barriscale at a recent typical “at home”
supper, gave this opinion after the company as-
sembled had agreed that naturalness was the great-
est factor for success on the screen! “It is hardly
possible to be natural in one’s acting unless one has
not had previous experience. Actors or actresses
who are reasonably sure of themselves are self-
conscious and when any trace of self creeps in, then
naturalness flies away. An artist must absolutely
know how to carry himself, how to dress, the proper
use of his eyes and hands, or he can never be any-
thing else but someone else mixed with himself, so
to speak. Experience on the speaking stage is
genuine sound experience, to my mind, and stock
experience is better than any other. It enables an
actor to disassociate himself with one character and
assume another one at short notice, and he has to
do this with far greater rapidity on the screen than
on the stage. Again, an actor who has not had a
world of experience, has to be shown how to do
things, and this bothers him and troubles the direc-
tor; while with an experienced artist, the director
gives his ideas and permits the actor to use his own
individuality and ideas which, with but little direc-
tion, fulfill the desires of the producer.”

We have said that Miss Barriscale is natural and
it is interesting to play audience at the recitation
of some of her experiences. t She started acting at

By RICHARD WILLIS

the age of five, and her cousin, Mabel Talliaferro,
had an advantage over her, for she started at two
and one-half years of age! Miss Barriscale’s first

effort was the child’s part in “Shore Acres” with
grand old James A. Hearne. She finds it difficult
to name the parts which followed, but says that
they included about every known kiddie part, em-
bracing “Li’l Eva,” the child in “The Celebrated
Case,” and “Fauntleroy.”

Her father was an actor and came to America
from England with the first “Lights O’ London”
company which was sent over from the old country.
Her grandfather followed, dissuaded the son from
acting and persuaded him to go into business. She
did not inherit any acting talent from her mother,
who was only behind the scenes once and that was
when the dresser was absent and when her daughter
wanted her help in buttoning up things. Her daddy
was very proud of her and it was through him that
she continued to do the one thing which she had
any real taste for. It may therefore be said that
Bessie Barriscale is a child of the stage.

M ISS BESSIE seems to have been tremendously
fortunate in having been associated with the
well-known actors who were not regarded as upstarts
or youngsters. For a long time she studied and
acted in repertoire with kindly Russ Whytal, and
she has heaps of nice things to say about him, too;
in fact, this seems to be a habit of hers, getting
attached to the artists she has worked with, and
speaking highly of them. Then for two years (the
thirteenth and fourteenth years of her life) she was
with the man who gave her the sound parting ad-
vice, Louis James, with whom she played Feance in
Macbeth, and other parts, and at the same time
understudied Katherine Kidder in “School for
Scandal,” as Ophelia and various other Shakespear-
ean parts — a rare experience for a girl so young.

Her next engagement was difficult to obtain, and
her own account of her trials is both humorous and
pathetic: “I was neither girl nor woman; my air

was grown up and so was my experience, but my
dresses were short and I was at the gawky age, with
my hair hanging down and with the self conscious-
ness of it all. Things were not going right at home
and it was necessary that I get something quickly,
so I went to Frederick Bond at the Fifth Avenue
Theater and saw him, and asked for the ingenue
position. Mr. Bond tried not to laugh, and looked

me up and down until I grew angry and scarlet.
Then he told me that I was but a little girl and
could never fill the position. It was useless for me
to tell him all I could do; he knew it all, but my
appearance was against me. This was on a Satur-
day. I spent most of Sunday in weeping and calling

myself names as I
looked in the glass,
but mother came to
me and said, ‘I would
not cry if I were
you; why not try
something else in-
stead?’ This started
me thinking and on
Monday morning
mother lent me one
of her dresses and
helped me put my
hair up. I pulled
myself together and
got another appoint-
ment with Mr. Bond.
I told him I had
come to apply for the
position of ingenue
with his company.
He looked at me for
a moment and then
burst out laughing
and said, ‘I knew
you had the expe-
rience; now I know
you have the right
spirit. The job is
yours.’ My first in-
genue part was with
Russ Whytal in ‘For
Fair Virginia,’ and then followed all the well-known
plays.”

Later when she had firmly established herself
as a foot-light favorite, she was seen as Lovey Mary
in New York, and she went to London and appeared
in the part for ten enchanting months. “Almost
long enough to cultivate an accent,” she laughingly
says. Among other people she has played with here
have been Margaret Anglin and Charles Coughlin.

M ISS BARRISCALE is a great favorite on the
Pacific Coast, where she was sent by Belasco
to take the leading part in “The Rose of the
Rancho” at the Alcazar, San Francisco. She re-
mained there for a year and they have wanted her
back again ever since. Then came her never-to-be-
forgotten creation of the part in “The Bird of Par-
adise,” which Richard Walton Tully wrote for her
and which was produced in Los Angeles where it
played for five weeks. She suffered disappointment
when the Morosco management would not let her
go east with the play; she was too big an asset
here. Her last big engagement on the stage was in
“We are Seven,” by Eleanor Gates, played in New
York City, when she returned to San Francisco and
later received an offer from the Lasky people to
play her original role in “The Rose of the Rancho,”
for the scl-een. We all know what a success she
made, and this one appearance obtained for her the
present position she occupies with the New York
Motion Picture Corporation at Santa Monica. Did
you see “The Cup of Life?” If not, you missed a
great photoplay; one of the finest ever filmed. In
this Miss Barriscale showed the gradual transition
of a girl’s character, and when the time came to
make her hideously ugly, she did not do it by halves.
Her performance in this and “The Painted Lady”
have stamped her as one of the finest actresses who
have graduated from the speaking stage to the
screen.

Remember, when you do see her, that her success
is due to absolute naturalness, that she studies
out her various roles and does them as she believes
they would be done in real life. The result is that
one never tires of her performances, for one forgets
that she is an actress. She is a disciple of nature.
She portrays the highest art; which is naturalness

MOVIE PICTORIAL

MOVIE PICTORIAL

Volume II SEPTEMBER, 1915 Number 3

LLOYD KENYON JONES, EDITOR

Published monthly.

Subscription price (in advance) in United States and
possessions, $1.00 a year; in Canada, $1.25 a year; in
foreign countries, $1.50 a year. Single copies, ten cents.

Copyright, 1915, by the Photoplaywrights’ Associa-
tion of America. Entered as second-class matter
April. 30, 1914, at the postoffice at Chicago, Illinois,
under the act of March, 3, 1879.

Published by the Photoplaywrig'nts’ Association of
America, Hartford Building, Chicago.

All communications should be addressed to MOVIE
PICTORIAL, Hartford Building, Chicago.

“They copied all they could follow , but they
Couldn't copy my mind ,

And I left 'em sweating and stealing
A year and a half behind

— Rudyard Kipling.

Needed — Uniform Censorship

It is a senseless demand that censors should go, but
it is a reasonable demand that censorship should be
uniform. The film manufacturer, who has complied
with the stringent demands of the Chicago board of
censors, does not know whether his picture will pass
the censor boards of Milwaukee, or San Fran-
cisco, or New York, or any other place. The
National Board of Censors does not have the sanc-
tion of united authority back of it, and in conse-
quence, any censor board may override the opinions
of that organization know as the National Board.

Films are used in interstate commerce, and yet
the Interstate Commerce Commission seems to have
rules and regulations for pretty nearly everything
else; none for the films. The film manufacturers
today are very much in the same position as man-
ufacturers in general: They do not know when they
are right and when they are wrong. A rule that is
laid down today may be altered tomorrow. Rules
are not laws.

Censorship is arbitrary. It is based on opinion.
The majority of voters in the United States are
picture patrons, and yet these patrons do not rally
to the cause of the manufacturer and do not insist
that their duly elected law-makers see that uniform-
ity of picture censorship is established.

The speaking stage presents pretty nearly any
problem play its promotors may conjure up. The
speaking stage, however, is not patronized by chil-
dren to the extent that is found in moving picture
theaters. Consequently, we can not say in verity
that there is a parallel.

Soon or later uniform regulation will be estab-
lished, and let us hope it will be soon. Some man-
ufacturing companies spend enormous sums prepar-
ing plays for the screen and in advertising those
plays, and yet never feel secure and never know
when a poorly digested beefsteak, agitating the
digestive organs of some sour-visaged censor, may
mean a direct loss of thousands of dollars through
the unjust censoring of films.

Local censor boards, being branches of police de-
partments, object to pictures showing dishonesty
among public officials. Unfortunately, many public
officials are proven dishonest, and if the public is
not to be acquainted with the methods of dis-
honesty, then where is American freedom? There
must be limitations to police authority. A police-
ridden community is a corrupt and decaying com-
munity. Here and there a police official has a broad
point of view, but manifestly the police are not the
ones to censor photoplays.

Since the governors of states have fallen into the
habit of holding conventions, unifying criminal and
civil codes of the various commonwealths may prove
a very wholesome result. Perhaps motion picture

questions will be handled by these governors in
session and through their concerted opinion, will
find places in the messages of those state executives
to the legislative bodies of the various common-
wealths. Whatever the remedy, the picture-play
patron can help bring it about.

The film companies are not looking for license,
but for freedom. And this freedom also includes
the patron. MOVIE PICTORIAL has set itself the
task of agitating the question of uniformity in cen-
sorship, and every reader should cogitate the same
subject and act upon it.

Individuality of the Player

The rule of some film studios to withhold names
of casts from publicity, is not a healthy or com-
mendable tendency. Suppose you were to pick up
your paper and look at the announcement of current
or coming theatrical attractions. What would be
your first point of consideration? It would be the
players.

The greatest playwright of all time was William
Shakespeare. Three hundred years ago, he set the
pace for the vast armies of playwrights that fol-
lowed. It is not enough to know that a Shakes-
pearean play is to be produced. We must know the
names of the members of the cast. “Macbeth,”
“The Merry Wives of Windsor,” “Twelfth Night,”
“The Merchant of Venice,” “Romeo and Juliet,” and
other Shakespearean plays, would be sad burlesques
handled by an unskilled cast.

If your favorite actor is Otis Skinner, or James
K. Hackett, or William Collier, or any of the others,
you feel that the actor has made the selection for
you through the very fact of his appearing in a
certain play. In the same way, you feel that if
you see the name of Mary Pickford or Henry Walt-
hall or numerous of your other favorites advertised,
you know that you are going to be satisfied with the
play, because the real artist can overcome many of
the impediments of the photoplaywright. Beyond
that, you know that only the best photoplays will be
selected for these stars.

We believe that the few studios that suppress the
names of their actors and actresses, are committing
a grave error. The name of the photoplay means
nothing. A fancy title may be but the gossamer
covering of a decidedly no-account play. The im-
portant considerations in guaranteeing your enter-
tainment are the players, the play, the production,
and the photography. It is the combination of the
cast, the photoplaywright, and the producing com-
pany that furnishes this entertainment to you. The
question of the subordination of the player will never
prove a success, because the public demands to
know and feel and understand the individuality of
the player. And more than twenty million picture
theater patrons look for the names of the players
and pay small heed to the name of the play.

Inspiration — Genius — and Hard
Work

According to our religious training, the world has
boasted anywhere from two or three to a few dozen
prophets. A prophet is a person who is presumably
inspired by direct communication with the divine
source of knowledge. Most of us are not so inspired.
Leastwise, the circuit is grounded and reaches us
much diluted.

Genius is not necessarily the outgrowth of
prophetic vision or divine inspiration. Genius is
the expresson of the most pronounced natural gifts,
that become the more artistic as they are developed.
There are few geniuses. No man elects himself to be
a genius. That is a point that must be decided by the
force of his labors and is usually decided after he
has been dead several generations. Many admit
that they are divinely inspired, but the vote is never
unanimous. Most of the worth-while achievements

of this world are accomplished through hard work.

Different persons are inclined in different artistic
or avocational directions. Some persons naturally
lean toward mechanics, or some branch of art, or
invention, or teaching. With the proper training
they become proficient in their chosen professions.
Inclination, on the other hand, does not always
indicate native ability. Some men and women have
“found themselves” after they were forty years old,
or fifty years old, or even older. They made the
wonderful discovery that they had been in the
wrong branch of business. They could not succeed
until they found the point of least resistance.

When we are told that there will never be another
generation of dramatic art as great as the present,
or another generation of photoplaywrights as great
as the present, we turn to history and history re-
futes the contention.

The hard, conscientious worker is generally the
one who succeeds the best — and when strenuous
labor is fortified by talent, then the success is
greater. The distribution of talent did not begin in
this generation, nor will it terminate with this
generation. The pictureplay did start in the present
generation, but it will pass on to posterity and con-
tinue to live, ages after every film of today has been
destroyed by oxidation and through other natural
causes.

It is unreasonable and unjust, and certainly il-
logical, for any person, or any set of persons, to say
that all the talent of the movies has been exhausted.
Such statements merely bear evidence of sublime
egotism or blind ignorance. There is no such thing
as the greatest man in the world, any more than
there is such a thing as the strongest man in the
world. We succeed best by doing our work as well as
we can do it. Each of us may reach a possible 100 per
cent. But one person’s 100 per cent may be only
40 per cent of another person’s full capabilities.

While we are convinced that the films have pro-
gressed more rapidly than any other branch of art,
because they combine numerous divisions of estab-
lished art, we are still forced to believe that the day
of progress has just begun and that it will not be
completed in this generation, or in the next, or in
the one after that. The last record of success in
this world has not been made; nor will it ever be
won so long as there are human beings to struggle
and labor.

The Incidental Legitimate Star

While the majority of film play leads were for-
merly speaking stage players, there is no argument,
we believe, that would prove legitimate stage ex-
perience to be all-sufficient in film success. The
studio is different from the stage. Camera restric-
tions, lighting effects, and the manner of producing
photoplays are all fundamentally different from the
processes involved in the legitimate drama.

We question that the name of a speaking stage
star, suddenly thrust upon the pictureplay public,
has any particular value or means anything unusual.
If the legitimate player joins the silent drama with
a view of being a permanent fixture on the screen,
then the screen does perhaps gain a most valued
acquisition. On the other hand, if the speaking
stage star jumps into a play for the films and out
again, the value of that intrusion is questionable.

Time and time again, it has been proved that
film favorites meet with only partial, and usually
dismal failure when they appear on the legitimate
stage. They have stepped out of the sphere of their
talents and reputation, so far as judgment goes, and
the same rule applies in the other direction.

The legitimate star, who enters the movies in-
cidentally, is as doleful a spectacle as the ordinary
dramatic playwright or fiction author who decides
to take the burden of photoplay writing from the
shoulders of the accomplished photoplaywrights. If
the old rule regarding the cobbler and his last has
any value, it should be applied to the differences
between the spoken and the silent drama.

20

MOVIE PICTORIAL

Tradelasts

L

•Y FAVORITE Movie
Theatre!

How much time do
you spend within its
enchanted walls? Do you go three or tour times a
week — or maybe five times? Then you spend about
five hours weekly, or twenty hours monthly, watch-
ing the magic screen. That means two hundred
hours a year, or twenty-five eight-hour days. You
have helped make the picture theatre possible;
you must help to make it more agreeable. There
are about twenty-one thousand photoplay houses
in the United States; they entertain over twenty
million regular patrons, besides many occasional
patrons. Unless you, and others, help make your
voices heard, you are not going to get the best
service; the kind of service that is coming to you
for your money.

We are going to pay a few prizes monthly just
to help everybody boost for better theatre condi-
tions. This is possible through knowing merits
and lack of merit — through praising what is good
or exposing what is evil. The picture theatre has
gone through many wonderful changes these past
few years, and it must go through other evolutions
the next few years. It has pressed the legitimate
theatre hard to the wall. It is the people’s play-
ground, where nickels and dimes can brush away
many of the cares of the day, and usher all of us
into a land of pleasing make-believe.

Earn a Prize

To encourage you, we will pay five one-dollar
prizes each issue for the five best letters, whether
they pass a bunch of violets to the exhibitor or cast
a cobblestone in his direction. Candidly, we like
one as well as the other. What is right, should
be encouraged; what is wrong should be discour-
aged. If you notice either class of conditions, tell
us about them, and we shall be glad to pass them
on to the world. This department will become a
sort of round robin for the patron. It will be a
petition for the best — and it will help the exhibitor
see his errors without being unduly unkind. Note,
we say “unduly unkind,” because if we must be
unkind, for the good of the cause, let us wear our
very best frowns.

Some of the Things to Watch

Bill Smith came down the street the other even-
ing with a mildewed expression. Plainly, Bill was
disconsolate. What was wrong? We asked him.
Said Bill: “That blanky blamed exhibitor of that
rippity blank theatre has about as much sense as
a two-day old lamb — and that sort of lamb hasn’t
any sense. I was in to see the films tonight and
what do you suppose I saw? Three different reels
released by the same film company, and each a
different story, but all with the same cast! If he
doesn’t know any more than to select that sort of
programme, I am through. I will keep my jitneys
and coax them to grow into quarters.”

Bill was right. It is rather a shock to one’s
sense of proportions to see a movie star as a young,
dashing hero in one play, and then as an old man in
the next play. It doesn’t fit in. We keep thinking
of the individual rather than of the part he plays.
But they do it, and why? Many exhibitors select
their programmes according to the names of the
plays, and stop there. They are as pleased over
titles as one of the old-fashioned boys of dime-
novel days. They look no further. They select at
random, the way a goat goes camping. And— how
do you feel about it?

This is the least of their offenses. They book
films that ran their course years ago — films so
badly worn that parts of them are missing; films
that seem to be back of a heavy rain-storm, and
make us believe that the exhibitor is in cahoots
with the optician next door. The exhibitor gets the
old stuff for a song, and it isn’t worth a whisper.
That’s the answer, and if we permit it, sheep-like,
that is all we deserve. If we are not good enough
for the best, we should have the worst.

“THINGS ABOUT MY THEATRE I LIKE AND DISLIKE
Conducted By Our Readers

There are other disagreeable things, also, such
as crowded foyers with no ventilation, and fabri-
cating ticket takers and ushers who keep us cool-
ing our heels in the lobby under the false belief
that the next show starts in ten minutes. We
breathe one another’s breath-poisons, and enter the
playhouse feeling half ill. We have a sneaking sus-
picion all the time that our dimes are more im-
portant than our comfort. If this is all the theatre
man thinks about us, and if we think nothing more
about ourselves, that is also all we have coming to
us; it is what we bid for, and what we get.

But — the worries increase. The butcher and
baker, and corset-maker, and the notion store man
must have their slides, and we have to look at the
miserable daubs twice a night and every night,
simply because the money we pay in at the box-
office isn’t enough to take care of the fiduciary de-
mands of the exhibitor. We get the ads rammed
down our necks, whether we will or not. As Bill
said, “Let a merchant take up my theatre time,
and I won’t be so ready to patronize him. He plays
me for a fish, and if I am a fish, I hate to be
reminded of it!” Again, William is right.

Sometimes the seats are too narrow, or the venti-
lation is bad, or a draft blows on our necks, and
makes us resort to drug store first-aid-to-the-in-
jured. Or the usher is impudent, and feels that
we are so many sacrifices offered up at the altar
of the stock-yards — blind ninnies without souls or
sense. And maybe that usher couldn’t earn as
much all week as we earn in an hour. It slaps our
dignity, and makes us feel like being profane. It
is poor business.

Then, there is the good-natured old lady who sits
back of us and reads all the titles and sub-titles,
and also anticipates the plot, and marvels at her
own cleverness in deducing what is going to hap-
pen. She is like the little hoy who wonders what
it is all about, and rises to ask, every time any one
starts for the door in a picture, “Ma, where’s she
goin’ now?” It punctures our concentration; it
reminds us that we are a lot of blithering infants
grown a little older — when all the time we are
there for the sake of illusion. Life itself is a good
deal illusion, so why shouldn’t we like to buy the
most acceptable kind?

Sometimes the first show has one more reel than
the other shows, and we can’t all go to the first
show. Again, at the last show (which should be as
important as the first one), some of the pictures
are run through fast, and the musicians don’t care
a rap whether they play or quit. We are debris,
and it hurts our feelings and brings lumps up in
our throats. We all dislike being "done” even
when the doing is very small. It injures our
pride, and we have just as much right to pride
as the exhibitor himself!

Watch the Releases

Suppose you keep close watch of the films shown
in your theatre? Are they late releases? Are
they varied? Do they run too much to religious
subjects, or predominate unnecessarily in melo-
drama, or become lop-sided in one way or another?

Does the exhibitor buy what he likes, or through
indifference, or because he wishes to please various
classes of patrons? If we get a wrong food combi-
nation, though all the food is good, it makes us
uneasy— internally. If we get the wrong programme
combination, it is like a bad mixture of food. Maybe
we see too much Wild West, or too much Crime,
or too much this, that or the other. . Why not
“speak out in meeting” about it?

There is another way to watch the releases: Are
you getting releases by just one company? If you
buy a magazine, you don’t get one author’s writings
exclusively. You get various types and lengths of

stories, written by many dif-
ferent authors. Why should
your programme not be about
that way? Why should the
reels bear only one trade mark? Aren’t you full
grown, and don’t you dislike being told what
you must have? The reason your exhibitor gives
you one company’s releases exclusively is because
he gets a better price on programmes, and you miss
what the other companies are putting out. You
don’t know any more about films generally than the
man who watches the same ball teams exclusively
knows about baseball in general. What is the use
of all these masterpieces unless you can see them?

Don’t smother your wrath. Don’t tolerate had
conditions if you can get better. We are going to
help you get the better because it exists, and it is
ours of we persist in having it.

Look for Good Things

Don’t become entirely a pessimist. Have an opti-
mistic point of view. If your exhibitor does some-
thing better, let us know about it. If you feel
that he is a regular human being, with your inter-
ests at heart, let us know. If he has a new and
novel way of advertising, tell us about it. If he can
make you feel better through the service he extends
to you, we want the world to know about it. The
exhibitor is not catering alone to your dime, but
to other dimes. He is a tradesman. He is in busi-
ness to entertain you, and apart from what the film
manufacturing and distributing companies can do
— beyond what the actors and actresses and photo-
playwrights can do — there are some other things
the exhibitor can do, and should do. If he knows
how, praise him. If he doesn’t know how, teach
him. If he refuses to do right, roast him.

Exhibitors generally are growing better. Some
of them have their own worries; and again, some
of them merit worries. Let us try to be impartial
and unprejudiced, and not take snap judgment.
Note the facts while your anger is burning: but
write your views a day or two later. If you are
related to an exhibitor, don’t be too glowing in
your praise of him. If you are an exhibitor, say
so, and tell your story. Exhibitors are not barred
from these Tradelast controversies.

Five $ 1 Piizes

The dollar itself isn’t much; the fun of getting
it is worth while, because it shows you that you
have helped agitate an important subject, which is
the entertainment of more than twenty million
deserving Americans. We are going to publish
not only the prize-winning letters, but others as
well. These letters should be about one hundred
words in length. Don’t write a book! Wit lies in
brevity — if it lies at all!

Tell us about your theatre— the programmes and
their merit points or poor points. This does not
mean that you are to mention individual releases,
or the companies back of the films. It means the
make-up of the programme — the variety, or lack of
variety. Tell us about ventilation, how the patrons
are handled or not handled, about lights, seats,
screens, music, general behavior of patrons and
how the manager insists on good conduct. If you
think your picture theatre is nothing but a flirting
colony, say so. If it lacks in moral proportions,
shout against it. Tell us about fire-protection,
exits, advertising ideas, ushers, and everything
else that pleases you or rasps your nerves.

Help us make the theatre better, and help us
make it the most acceptable amusement place in
America. The Movies have been with us long
enough to be cultivated. The weeds must be pulled
out and the good grain encouraged. You are the
one to be a missionary for better picture theatres,
and you may begin by dissecting your own — the
one most convenient to you. If that is not worth
while, you must journey to the next and the next
— and we contend that it is just as easy to
have every theatre worthy as it is to have a few.
Addess your letters: Tradelast Editor, Movie

Pictorial, Hartford Bldg., Chicago, 111.

MOVIE PICTORIAL

21

A FASHION Show unending — the new
criterion of style — with “living
models” who entertain us on the
screen, and among whom are sev-
eral of your stature and your type!
You see what no show window could
disclose, and what no models could bring
out: the styles in oction. No studied poses
no careful movements lest a fold be mis-
placed — but the gowns you would look well
in, shown as they must be seen — in actual
use!

Have you realized this angle of the mov-
ing picture — this opportunity to employ it
as one of the guides in modeling your ward-
robe? And its service can be used with ex-
pertness too.

Study the actresses who have figures sim-
ilar to your own; do not worry how you
might look in a dress or coat that has been
fitted to a different type of woman. And
remember that the actress who is most
nearly of your type will display innumer-
able gowns, and will help you decide. This
is doubly true, because not only does your
type display her costumes in action, but she
is abreast of the most recent styles — and is
generally setting the styles.

If you were tall and Gibsonesque, you
would not copy Miss Pickford or Miss Clark
— but rather a type more nearly correspond-
ing to your own. Besides, by inquiring of
this Department, you may learn the texture,
the materials and the manner of designing,
and if you wish, the complexion — the
natural coloring — of the artist herself. The
actresses of the films select with great care,
because the costume is a most essential
part of their art; it is a demand on their
professional skill. They understand how
to dress — and they are faithful students of
harmony of colors. Although you see naught

Dark blue ser£e — Nor-
folk — lar£e patch pockets
on lacket with flap— small
pocket on belt. Skirt has
pockets on either side with
four buttons. Hat Is a three
cornered Tam of black vel-
vet and straw. White fox
neck piece.

^ifLn 3W

of Essanay

If you see upon the screen, a dress, suit,
hat or garment worn by a film favorite, that
appeals to you especially, and you believe
that the actress wearing the costume, re-
sembles yourself in figure and coloring,
write to me asking for a detailed descrip-
tion of the article of apparel. Be sure to
furnish me with the name of the actress
and the play — and if possible, the scene in
which the garment was worn — for these
actresses often wear many outfits in a sin-
gle play.

At the time of replying, we will give you,
if you wish, that actress’ height, weight,
and coloring (hair, eyes and skin).

Remember this department is open to
you — it is your department. We want you
to feel it is your information bureau — want
you to write at any time on this subject.
Here is a great field of study for you as
regards your wardrobe, an arena where ex-
perts in dress and mode are ever passing
before you.

And you know that they do not go about
this part of their preparation for their por-
trayal in a haphazard manner, but employ
the same thought and care in the selection
of their wearing apparel as in their make-
up. All this you can command through the
films and turn to your advantage. Secure
your mental impression of any garment you
admire from the screen and obtain the de-
tails through this department — that is the
purpose of it and the more inquiries we re-
ceive from those really interested in wear-
ing apparel seen on the screen, the more
we will be encouraged.

All you need do is to write your letter, giv-
ing the information required, as stated above,
and to insure a personal reply, enclose a self-
addressed stamped envelope. Be sure to
address: THE FASHION EDITOR.

English tweed mater-
ial. Belted Norfolk lacket
with patch pockets and
box pleats. Skirt buttons
on side and has two side
pleats. Pose color felt hat —
yellow fox fur and swa£-
aer stick.

9lcff Guu,

of Essanay

but effects in light
and shadow, these
dresses are of vari-
ous colors, and the
film studio is a display
of rich tints and most
excellent style.

The Ladies Dainty
of the Screen are of
all height s — all
weights — b londes,
brunettes, and be-
twixt and between. To
understand style, you
should know these
other characteristics,
and Movie Pictorial
will give you these
details henceforth —
the statures and na-
tural colorings of
these actresses. Then
you may know what
will suit you best —
and in copying these
gowns, you have the
privilege of selecting
your own materials,
which you may do
easily when you know
the details.

Think this over ;
appreciate its value
to you; do not hesi-
tate to ask for the in-
formation you want.
With these points in
view, send in your
letters.

* * * *

Pink taffeta and em-
broidered net, with upper
part of skirt net and lower
of taffeta. Net sleeves and
waist, with taffeta belt and
taffeta coat effect In the
back. Pink silk hat stitch-
ed with white and faced
with white horsehair braid.

VRnt(-> Stone I V

one home

of Essanay

MOVIE PICTORIAL

JSL

!□:

Ml

]□□□□□

UUUULJUL

—

□SG»

REALISM IN THE MOVIES

W HAT errors do you notice on
the screen?

The producers of pictures
have their own troubles in
keeping close account of details. And
yet we attend picture plays for enter-
tainment and only as the details are
perfect is our entertainment perfect.

In the strange adventures of
“Elaine,” we personally noticed Miss
Pearl White place a revolver in the
left-hand pocket of her coat. A few
moments later, when she drew her
revolver, she brought it out of her
right hand pocket. This is not an
uncommon error. Inasmuch as the
two different scenes were enacted at
different times, Miss White simply
forgot where she had placed the re-
volver.

Let us see what our readers have
discovered during the past month.
Also, remember that a prize of $5.00
is paid to the person who writes what
we consider the best “realism” let-
ter.

Mr. A. M. Seibert of Pittsburgh,
writes and finds complaint about drag-
ging in the old time actresses for
juvenile leads, such as Lillian Russell
in “Wildfire.” Mr. Seibert says:
“The human eye can not be deceived
in reading the ‘Seven Ages of Man.'
And whilst we all admire the gor-
geous Autumn season, we all look up
to the fresh, young and beautiful
green of Springtime.” Unfortunately
we can not call this a “realism,” al-
though it is a very excellent criticism.

The Stake and the Mistake

Toledo, Ohio.

In “The Stake” (Universal) Flo
knocks Bob’s hat off. The hat falls to
the ground. In the next picture it is
on his shoulder. Did he have a spring
or a rubber band on it? Yours truly,
(Signed) William A. Moll, Jr.
No, William, it was simply one of
these trick kelleys that the funny
artists tell about.

Anent a Floater

New Orleans, La.

In “Should a Mother Tell,” the corpse
of one of the villains is shown floating
in the water face up. A male corpse
only floats face down. It is only the
female who floats face up. In this re-
gard, then, the picture is glaringly
unreal. Respectfully,

(Signed) Welcome Horter.

This is a new one on us. But if it
is true, it may suggest the eventual
distinctions of Fate between the male
and the female.

Some More Inconsistencies

Middletown, N. Y.

In “The Bondwoman,” the heroine
starts from her beautiful apartments
to mail some manuscripts. She stops
to put on a big raglan coat, and then
runs a block to the letter-box, evi-
dently forgetting that she wears a
boudoir cap. To me, an artistic picture
was spoiled by the combination of a
heavy overcoat and a lace house cap.

In a film I was playing for, a hus-
band and wife were about to be united
after a separation of years, at the bed-
side of their only son. The son had
been rescued from the waves and
brought along the coast by the men
who always appear so mysteriously in
deserted places. As the stretcher with
its burden was being carried into the
mother’s cottage, the son, supposed
to be dead, or at least unconscious —
laughed! We all forgive him, how-
ever, because he had played here in
stock and was a jolly good fellow.
Sincerely,

(Signed) Anna Gumaer Berg.
Perhaps we are supposed to over-
look inconsistencies of this nature
because of the theory that the dead
deserve respect.

Not True to Fly - Time

Montgomery, Ala.

In the Civil War picture “Dan,” the
front door of the old home is shown
with a screen door. In ’61, screen
doors were not known. It looked
strange to see actors in costumes of
that period opening and closing a
screen door. In the same picture, when
the uncle came to see them, Dan, the

A Department for the Discussion of Films Possessing or Lacking Realism

Conducted by Our Readers

Your help toward the accomplishment aimed at by this department
is requested. Send in your criticisms. Do not hesitate- Join your
efforts with ours. A prize of $5.00 is given each month to the con-
tributor of the criticism deemed most worthy, be it either for or against
the film. Address all communications to the Realism editor.

negro, met him on the porch and shook
hands with him and slapped him on
the back. Negroes would never have
done any such thing.

In one war story, the name of which
I have forgotten, in the most thrilling
scene, the electric piano started to
play “Tipperary.”

I wish that young actresses would
take the part of young ladies in pic-
tures. It is terrible to see old actresses
attempting to do juvenile sweetheart
scenes. Yours truly,

(Signed) Miss M. E. Fitzpatrick.
These Civil War pictures, Miss Fitz-
patrick, are written largely by North-
erners who wouldn’t know a bald
eagle from a buzzard. Maybe it was
the same brand of mistakes that
brought on the Civil War. We don’t
see any of these inconsistencies in
“The Birth of a Nation.” Both Mr.
Griffith, the producer, and Mr. Walt-
hall, the lead, are Southerners.

A Few Helpful “Dongs'*

Little Rock, Ark.

Don’t allow a lady to wear the same
dress five years later — or fail to move
the clock up to suit the hour — or use
waning stars as coquettish young girls
— or put on more make-up than the
part demands — or spoil an excellent
effect by using an opposite door for
exit from the one entered — or move too
quickly and destroy the idea of natural-
ness — or turn on the lights when the
house is full of sunshine — or censor a
beautiful masterpiece like “The Hypo-
crites” when C. C. can play to full
houses, or a few others of that type,
that are looked at in askance. Re-
member, don’t do these many needless
things.

(Signed) Mrs. S. Douglas Knox.

The Variable Accomplishments
of Tess

Los Angeles, Cal.

In “Tess of the Storm Country,” Tess’
environments, her general appearance
and the slang expressions she uses,
would indicate inability to read or
write. After she has stolen a Bible
from the church, she is shown several
times reading it, and several times
she quotes (the gist of) verses. But,
when the Deacon sends her a note of
apology, etc., she can not read it but
asks another to do so. Perhaps she
was inspired while attempting to read
the Bible. Sincerely,

(Signed) J. E. Wright.

Jevne*s Bread in *61

Los Angeles, Cal.

I recently saw “The Old Chair.”
The play was supposed to have been
taken during the war between the
North and South. It was very good,
but I wonder if people ate Jevne’s
bread in those times. In one of the
scenes taken in front of the village
store, where the men usually gath-
ered to talk over matters, a messenger
rode up crying that war had been de-
clared. The first thing that attracted
the attention of the audience was the
fact that there was a large Jevne
bread box standing in front of the
store.

I noticed that the producer had
everything in keeping with the time,
for instance, mode of living, style of
dress, construction of house, carriages
and other details, but why not be par-
ticular about small things such as the
bread box, as well as the large things.

Yours truly, K. G.
Here, indeed, is an incongruity!
And yet we have eaten some of
Jevne’s bread that we might easily
have believed was baked back in
1861.

Those Pesky Shootin* Irons Again!

Birmingham, Ala.

Moving picture producers have
strange ideas of the quality of Ameri-
can humor. They seem to think it
worthy of great hilarity to see one
man shoot at another twenty-five or
thirty times without re-loading bis
pistol — while the effect on the other
is sufficient to make him jump as if
struck by every shot, although not
hard enough to stop him from run-
ning. They also consider it funny to
see two men beat each other into a
state of apparent insensibility — and,
yet, here we are about the only neutral

Somebody among the nations of the
world. Yours truly,

(Signed) Lois Lloyd.
Your ideas are quite to our own
heart, Miss Lloyd. Those pesky
shootin’ irons are one of the obses-
sions of the screen. The idea of
comedy seems to be to soak some
one over the head with a sledge. Lo^k
for “Chimmie Fadden” and you will
find some humor that does not require
brutality.

Time , Husbands and New Born Babies

New York, N. Y.

In “The Inner Brute,” an Essanay
release, the mother is supposed to be
frightened by a lion the night before
the birth of her child, and is saved by
her husband. Yet the leader says “A
Month Later,” and shows the news
being brought to the husband. Where
had he been? The new-born baby in
the picture looked to be about six
months old. Can’t the Essanay get
any younger ones?

Also, will the time ever come when
the screen moonshiner will cease to
exist? And was, is there, or will
there ever be a moonshiner’s daughter
that does not faJl in love with the
revenue officer? —

In a Gold Seal, one of the characters
carefully turns his cap around back-
wards, and when he gets into the
yacht it is on straight, and when he
comes out it is on backwards again.

In “The Goddess,” Episode 12, a
close-up of Miss Jensen showed her in
a striped shirt waist and in the other
picture the waist was white. In the
13th Episode, Freddie put the Pro-
fessor’s glasses on, and the professor
had no hat on. When the glasses
were put on, there was a hat on the
professor’s head. He took them back
and the hat vanished.

Perhaps, after all, people don’t want
things too realistic. Grace Cunard
and Francis Ford in “The Broken
Coin,” did natural things in the most
natural way, and yet people laughed.

Sincerely,

(Signed) Jessie F. Edgerly.
Perhaps you are right, Miss Edger-
ly. In the halcyon days of wrestling,
when the contestants fought fairly
the audience hooted them. When
they “faked,” every one went away
satisfied. Sometimes a thrill will
cover, up. an inconsistency.

Screen Police Systems

Portland, Ore.

Miss Lenore Ulrich has made a host
of friends by her wonderful protrayal
of Kilmeny in the play of that name.
However, it doesn't seem possible that
the author of the play should display
such ignorance of the wonderful de-
tective systems and police systems
that we have today.

I would imagine that the scenes of
this play were laid in England and
that it represented the nobility of
modern days. When Kilmeny is kid-
naped by the gypsy band, after the
burning of her father’s barn, it seems
absurd to think that, knowing of the
trouble that had been caused when he
took the child away from the gypsies
at first, Kilmeny’s father would not
even attempt to rescue the child or
even notify the police or a detective
agency regarding the case. It is too
absurd to think of.

Certainly all the countries of today
have systems so that in almost every
case they can detect whether the kid-
napers are strangers in the vicinity or
not, and with a gypsy band as fero-
cious as they were portrayed in Kil-
meny, does it seem reasonable to be-
lieve that a father would give up his
child so readily? Had the gypsies
escaped by stealth and not been found
again, it would have been different,
but Kilmeny’s father visited the camp
while they were moving away. The
play certainly does not speak well for
our lawmakers of todav.

(Signed) H. B. Bassett.
We often see on the screen such
inconsistencies as arrests for felony
without warrants, and other things
that are not in harmony with the
statutes. The scenario writers too
often consider the art of writing as
greater than the art of observation.

A Few on ** Marse Covington **

Fairfield, Ala.

In “Marse Covington,” one would
think that every Virginian were ac-
customed to drinking nothing but mint
juleps. I watched the play twice be-
fore I would believe that the house-
keeper wore the same dress after the
war that she had on before the war,
although a period of four years had
passed. She even had on the same cap
and collar. The old negro, Dan, would
sometimes call Virginia by its right
name (through the use of the sub-
title) and sometimes by the negro pro-
nunciation “Virginny.” In the office
of the lawyer, when the deed was
being given back to Marse Covington,
the stenographer wrote continuously
for three minutes on one line.

In a picture playhouse that I recent-
ly visited, a graphophone furnished
the music, and during the saddest part
of “Tess of Storm Country,” the in-
fernal machine was screeching out
“It’s a Long, Long Way to Tipperary.”
(Signed) Margaret Suppler.

** Greater Love Hath No Man**

New Orleans, La.

Your collection of criticisms would
be incomplete without the addition of
“Greater Love Hath No Man,” a Metro
release. The producer is to be con-
gratulated in incorporating in a single
film every possible violation of the
laws of realism and probability.

We start with the Utopian peniten-
tiary, where the main workroom of the
convicts is located over an elaborate
system of sqwers and tunnels sepa-
rated merely by a thin wooden floor.
After the convicts had sawed their way
through this thin wooden floor, in-
stead of gaining their freedom they
climbed back to their work and con-
finement. One convict splashed about
in knee-deep water in the tunnel,
climbed back to join his comrades, and
behold, his clothes were dry! The lei-
surely manner in which the hero
knocks down, drags out and throws
above his head the rebellious convicts
would bring out the green-eyed mon-
ster in John L. or Jess Willard.

In the fire scene, the heroine, blinded
by the smoke, rushes into the burning
house only to pose, pick up a bird-cage
from one table and set it on another,
and pose again, while she waits for
the property man to blow more deadly
smoke in her direction. Finallv, decid-
ing that the smoke market is done, she
lies down on the floor in a comfortable
position to await the coming of her
rescuer.

When the convict-hero and her
father, the warden, are told that she
is in the burning building, do they
rush madly to her rescue? Not at all.
They made faces in the camera. Even
after the hero has gone inside the flam-
ing house he does considerable more
posing. Then, throwing the half-con-
scious heroine over his shoulder, he
carries her along a dizzy ledge that
must be all of ten or twelve feet above
the ground. No one attempts to move
the ladder toward the imperiled stars,
although a gaping mob is looking on.
The heroine is heavy and the hero is
fat and slow.

When the hero escapes from prison
and is pursued by the guard, he hides
and jumps upon the unsuspecting
guard, strikes at him, missing him by
at least three feet. But the guard is
accommodating and drops senseless.

Other inconsistencies show a schoon-
er sailing on a motionless sea. When
the schooner is destroyed by lightning
and sinks immediately, the hero is
found on a raft, the construction of
which would require hours of labor
of the entire crew.

Another scene shows the heroine
waiting at the bridge. There is a per-
fect calm settled over the sea and not
a breath of air stirring. And yet, only
a few hundred yards away, the hero is
supposed to be fighting his way sur-
rounded by a howling tempest.

When taken to the death-bed of his
mother, the convict is shown in his
prison garb, notwithstanding the fact
that when convicts are taken outside
for any such purpose, they are always
given ordinary clothing to wear.
When the guilty son confesses his
crime, he darts away down the front
steps, then stops, poses, lies down awk-
wardly, and rolls the balance of the
distance to his death. Can you beat
it? Sincerely yours,

E. W. W.

We believe that E. W. W. merits
the $5 prize. He has uncovered a vast
number of inconsistencies, and, in-
deed, pointed out others that we did
not incorporate in the letter, because
we still had some pity in our hearts
for “Greater Love Hath No Man.”

MOVIE PICTORIAL

23

The Spoken Word

( Continued from page 7)

Jack’s heart stood still. In reply
to the sergeant’s questioning he said
only that he had seen Helen last at
five-thirty when she had left the
office and, as he supposed, gone home.
Could the articles found in the park
be sent to him?

The sergeant demurred at first but
upon his promise to produceRhem if
necessary he consented to send an
officer down with them. Haverly
hung up the receiver slowly. Burton
Park! Why, it was five miles from
the Sentinel office! But perhaps
Helen lived out that way! He un-
locked the safe and took out the ad-
dress book, then ran his finger down
the alphabetical list.

Holden, Helen, 115 Hamilton Court.
Telephone East 1806.

Clear on the other side of town!
He rang up the number only to learn
from the anxious landlady that Helen
had not been home the night before.
Sick at heart he tossed the receiver
back onto the hook and pondered
what to do next. As he sat thus the
officer entered and a moment later
Haverly held in his hand the little
silver bag. When the man had gone
he closed and locked the door, al-
though, so far as he knew there was
not a soul in the great empty build-
ing except himself.

He opened the bag and laid the
contents out one at a time on the
desk. There was a dainty handker-
chief with Helen embroidered across
one corner; the inevitable powder
puff; a small coin purse containing
a dollar and a half in change; some
cards bearing her name and down in
one corner the words Representing
the Sentinel; last of all, a little white
package which bore his own name.
He laid the bag down by the other
things and slowly unwrapped it. He
caught his breath when the beautiful
thing lay in his hand. Why — she
must have made it herself! That
was his face! Hers! — as it had al-
ways smiled up at him until — until
last night ! The silver of which it
was made was as soft as satin, the
two faces perfectly wrought. The little
trifle felt suddenly warm, human, to
his touch. He lifted it to his lips.
It was evident that into the making
of it she had put the whole of her

love for him, and he . He had

driven her out into the night, per-
haps to death — or worse!

The littie silver box went into his
pocket. He buttoned his coat tightly
over it. The other things he replaced
in the bag, put it into a small drawer,
locked it and put the key in his pock-
et. Then he called the sergeant
again, urging him to make every ef-
fort to learn the fate of Helen and
promising his own assistance, stipu-
lating, however, that there should be
no publicity given the affair. Then
he closed the office and went home.

Is there anywhere on earth a mask
so terrible as that which we are
forced to wear ourselves? The next
six months were filled with days
which tried Jack’s soul. Streaks of
gray crept into his dark hair, hut his
face revealed nothing of the grief
which was torturing him from within.
If only he had not spoken! If only he
could tell her he was sorry — make it
right! Vain regrets. Helen had
dropped out of sight. The police and
the private detective engaged by him-
self had been unable to get the slight-
est clue of her. Haverly himself had
used every moment of his spare time
"sleuthing” as in the old days when
he had been a “cub” on the paper.
Once he had gotten as far as the door
of St. Luke’s only to learn from the
register that no one of that name had
been either admitted or discharged.
Helen’s condition when she was taken
there was such as to preclude the pos-
sibility of getting her name. She was
just “the patient in 342.” Weeks
after, when it was possible for the
hospital authorities to learn it she

had decided not to reveal her identity.
So she went on the record as Mary
Smith.

And so the days slipped into weeks
and the weeks into months. Winter
passed and the soft air of the
spring was blowing in at the open
windows. But the good doctor’s
heart was troubled. So far as Helen’s
disease was concerned he had won
the battle. Every vestige of it had
disappeared. But Helen herself did
not get well, and one morning as he
was making his rounds he came upon
her sitting in a corner of the sun
parlor looking out with the face of a
Madonna toward the distant hills.
Twenty-five years as a physician had
taught him much that is not writ in
books. He went on the principle
that there is always a story behind
the circumstance. The thing to do
was to get the story, and in this he
was an adept. He stood for a mo-
ment and watched her silently. Then
he Went over and sat down beside
her.

' “Little woman,” he said kindly,
“tell me why you don’t get well.”

“Why, doctor ” she stammered,

S‘I thought I was getting well.”

"Your physical illness was cured
long ago,” he answered. “It is your
soul that is sick, my child. Come.
Won’t you tell me all about it?”

The quick tears sprang into her
eyes. How kind he had been! He
knew absolutely nothing about her
except that she had no money to pay.
One day when she had tried to speak
of it he had stopped her instantly,
telling her that a victory such as
he had won in her case was pay
enough for any man and adding
whimsically that he would take it
out on some rich fellow who had the
price! He was waiting for her to
speak, watching her closely. So
presently she said simply.

“I loved a man, and he — was —
cruel.”

“I thought so. What else?”

“That is all.”

“Are you sure? You think it is
because he was cruel that you can’t
get well?”

She nodded.

He took the slender, almost trans-
parent hand between his own and
said softly, “You are mistaken, my
child. Your diagnosis is wrong. You
do not get well because you have not
forgiven him. You love him still.”
She did not answer but the doctor
knew by the look which came into
her eyes that he was right. So he
went on.

“Have you ever stopped to think
that if he has done you a wrong his
suffering must be greater than yours?
I am a man myself. I know that the
lenses through which a man views
life do not give him the same vision
as that seen by a woman. The very
best of us make mistakes, my child,
and when we do — why, that’s just
when we need you most. We men
would have a sorry time of it in this
old world if the dear women who
love us were not divinely forgiving.
Stop nursing your wound, little wom-
an, and you will find that it will heal
of its own accord. And now, I want
to say something more. You have
been here too long. You are what
we call "hospital tired.” Don’t think
for a moment that I am going to lose
sight of you or lose interest in you.
I’m not. But I am going to take you
home tomorrow, and before you go I
want you to make me a promise, will
you?”

“What is it, doctor?”

“It will not be easy — the thing I
want you to promise. But — when he

comes to you asking pardon ”

“He will not come!” she cried pas-
sionately.

“He will. And when he does — for-
give him royally, as a woman alone
knows how to do. Not for his sake.
For yours. Will you promise?”

“I promise.”

V

Another half year went by. To all
outward appearances Haverly was the

same as ever, a prince of good fellows
to his associates, a devoted son to
his mother. But the latter knew that
inwardly he was changed and not
even she herself seemed able to pen-
etrate that calm exterior and get
close to the heart of the man. Often
at night after all the others had left
he lingered, in order that unobserved,
he might unlock the drawer in his
desk and touch the contents of the
little silver bag. Night after night
he walked the thirty blocks between
the office and his home for no reason
except that he knew that physical
weariness would be followed by sleep.
Nothing had disappeared from the
office since Helen went away, and
there could be no stronger proof
of his love than that, believing her
guilty, he loved her still.

He saw the end of the year ap-
proach with foreboding. He dreaded
the return of Christmas Eve and the
memories it would bring. He looked
feverishly about him for some-
thing on which he could put his mind
and finally an episode took place
which gave him the desired oppor-
tunity. Jack liked a good fight.
Chance favored him.

For several months past un-
authorized agents of the labor unions
had been going about the city com-
pelling contractors and builders to
pay them large sums of money to pre-
vent their calling a strike. As the
latter could ill afford to have their
building held up many of them paid.
Those who refused were harassed
until financial failure stared them in
the face. At last a well-known con-
• tractor who refused to be buncoed
was killed, and when the real facts in
connection with his death came out
Haverly elected to expose the fraud-
ulent agents. He attacked them bold-
ly through the columns of the Sen-
tinel. The owners of the paper re-
monstrated with him. The men on
the staff warned him. He paid no
attention. Protests from the unions,
the rank and file of which did not
understand the real state of affairs,
threats from the men accused, scur-
rilous, anonymous letters began to
flood the office. Haverly read every
one of them and filed them away. He
was not to be bluffed. He hammered
away at them until, at last, the unions
themselves saw a great light. They
understood what the bogus agents
were doing for them. They suddenly
“came across.” The men were ex-
pelled from their unions and the fight
was won.

While the excitement was at its
height, however, a thing of equal im-
portance, to Haverly at least, devel-
oped. Mathews was caught red-
handed in his dirty work, and had re-
ceived his just deserts. It was Thorn-
ton who finally ran him to cover —
Thornton, who although the thefts
had stopped with Helen’s disappear-
ance, had never ceased to insist that
“there must be some mistake.” He
almost feared to tell Haverly of his
discovery of Mathews’ guilt and when
he did the look in his eyes had caused
him to wring his friend’s hand silent-
ly and turn quickly away. And so
the days went on, and it was Christ-
mas Eve again.

True to his word the doctor had not
forgotten Helen. He went to see her
every now and then and realizing her
loneliness occasionally sent her a
new book or a ticket to the theater
or concert. She looked as fragile as
a piece of egg-shell china, yet she
seemed to be well enough. She put
in her spare time writing stories to
which, however, she signed a name
not her own, and to making pretty
trifles in her little shop in the attic.
On Christmas Eve the doctor sent her
a ticket for “The Messiah,” and after
the concert, as she stood in the crowd-
ed car on her way home she sud-
denly heard a familiar voice right
behind her head. It was Mathews.

She twisted about, a bit till she
could steal a look at his face. The
man with whom he talked was a
low-browed, brutal-looking individual

Our October
Release

Multiple Reels of En-
joyment Extraordinary!

Order Your October Movie
Pictorial of Your News
Dealer Now!

You have seen the forward march
of “The Saturday Evening Post of the
Films:” MOVIE PICTORIAL. Each
month has opened a new, more inti-
mate view of the world’s mightiest
delight — the screen!

October will bring new expressions
of commendation from you — your
family — and the family next door.

MARY RIDPATH-MANN

who has delighted you these past few
months, will begin a new wonder-
story: “LOVE vs. LITERATURE,”

and you will live with a little lady
who thinks reason will decide be-
tween her heart and her head!

MABEL BROWN SHERARD

begins a most delightful tale: “THE
DIARY OF DANIEL DARWOOD,
Movie, Idol.” Daniel is wedded to
his art — when one day he receives a
perfumed note — and unthinkingly
sends the cold steel of reality into
the heart of a dainty maid. And then
— but read the story!

EDWARD A. SALISBURY

the famous filmer of Wild Animal
Life, contributes another of his re-
markable stories of portraying wild
creatures as they are — the greatest
contribution to natural history in a
generation.

A DAY WITH KEYSTONE

that takes you into the studio that
was made famous by Mack Sennett,
Fatty Arbuckle, Mabel Normand and
other comedians of the famous Key-
stone Comedies — now one of the new
Triangle!

MILDRED WASKA

who finds laughter in tears, will take
you on another movie jaunt, and
show you where the smiles are hid-
den among the sobs — with original
decorations by herself!

THE GIRL IN THE PATHE

will come to a most startling close —
not at all the way you have imagined
— heavens, no! See what happens in
the last paragraph!

FILM FAVORITES GALORE

will greet you in new and better ways
— will take you to their hearts, and
make you feel at home. And — you
will be better acquainted for the re-
freshing visit.

THE PRIZE DEPARTMENTS

which include "Realism” and "Trade-
lasts,” will supply new laughs and a
good deal of wholesome logic that
hides between the giggles. Film
Favorites’ Fashions, The Split Reel
and other departments will convey
just the sort of entertainment and in-
struction you enjoy.

ANOTHER BEAUTIFUL COVER

as well as full-page and innumerable
other illustrations, and a host of
stellar delights, will make you say
that

MOVIE PICTORIAL IS THE
BIGGEST DIME’S WORTH
IN AMERICA!

If you are a news-stand patron,
order NOW! If you are a subscriber
and your subscription expires, RE-
NEW. Don’t miss our October Re-
lease! It’s an All-Star Show!

24

MOVIE PICTORIAL

How I Became a

Moving

Picture

Actor

By JACK W. KERRIGAN

The first book to appear per-
sonally written by Mr. KERRIGAN,
limited to one thousand copies with
the Author’s original autograph to
you, comprising the episodes of his
life, from his initiation in the Moving
Picture World to the present day.

He tells of his ambition to become
a Star and the many difficulties sur-
mounted in the attainment of this
ambition; of the many experiences
of which he has been the central fig-
ure; his interesting correspondence;
the graphic description of his numer-
ous characterizations; in fact, a mi-
nute and concise account of his entire
stage life.

This book contains perfect repro-
ductions of his famous characters,
and is artistically bound by master
binders.

LIMITED to One Thousand copies;
mail your order today for prompt
delivery.

A Gift Book appreciated by all.
While they last, this book delivered
postpaid in the United tSates for
$1.50, foreign ten cents extra.

Address me care of Mr. JACK W.
KERRIGAN, care of THE UNIVER-
SAL MFG. CO., UNIVERSAL CITY,
CALIF.

J. VAN CARTMELL.

11 |f

LJJI

>-

'

A Man’s Mail Will Reach Him
Where No Mortal Can

MAILING LISTS

99% GUARANTEED

covering all classes of busi-
ness, professions, trades or
individuals. Send for our
complete catalog showing
national count on 7,000
classifications. Also special
prices on facsimile letters
and addressing.

ROSS-GOULD, 414G N. 9th Street
ST. LOUIS

with a countenance strongly resem-
bling that of a bull-dog. Scenting
mischief she backed up just as close
as she could and suddenly her blood
ran cold. They were talking about
Jack! She heard the words “tonight —
always leaves the office about eleven-
thirty — the man-hole right back of
the building — connects with the
main sewer — wash him clear out to
sea!” A coarse laugh from the bull-
dog-faced man followed.

“Thinks he’ll monkey with the
unions, does he? Well, we’ll show
him!”

Helen did not wait to hear more.
There was but one thing to do.
She was going to do it. Her warning
might not be kindly received. Never-
theless she would give it. Haverly
was in danger of losing his life. It
was not because it was Jack, she
argued fiercely with herself. She
would do the same for anybody.

She slipped from the car at the
next corner. As she dropped off of it
a policeman was just “pulling the
box” on the corner. She rushed to
him, told him in as few words as pos-
sible what she had heard. He prom-
ised to have a wagon-load of officers
at the building in five minutes.
Helen hailed a passing taxi, told the
man to drive her to the Sentinel
office at once. When she got out she
saw by the clock that it was eleven-
fifteen. She flew to the elevator.

“Fourth floor!” she said breath-
lessly.

The car shot up. She stepped out
and caught her breath quickly as she
realized that she was on her old
stamping ground. In the corner was
her desk at which she had worked.
It was closed and locked. She
wondered who used it now, never sur-
mising the real truth, that it had
never been opened since the day she
went away and that Haverly had the
key in his pocket. She rushed into
the outer office. It was empty. Was
she too late? She knocked on Jack’s
door and a familiar voice said, “Come
in!”

She stepped inside. Jack sat at
the desk, the contents of the silver
bag spread out before him. He looked
up quickly, then rubbed his hands
over his eyes to be sure that they
were not playing him tricks. He
sprang up with outstretched arms.

“Oh, Helen! Helen! Have you
come back to me?” he cried.

She put up her hands to stop him.

“Wait!” she said nervously. “You
must go — at once. They are coming

to ‘get’ you — the labor men and — and
— Mathews! They’re waiting till

eleven-thirty till you leave the office.
They’ll tie you with ropes, throw you
in the man-hole to die and be carried
out to sea. Oh, please, please go — -
won’t you?”

In her terror she had gone close
to him and was pulling nervously at
his coat. Quietly he took possession
of the restless hands and looked down
into the flushed, pleading face.

“You came to warn me?” he asked
brokenly. “You — you did this for me
after — after ”

“Oh, don’t!” she begged. “Please
go!”

“Listen, dear,” he said gently, “I’m
not afraid of Mathews, nor of any
man, nor of any gang of men. I hate
to run. But because you — came, dear-
est, and because I love you I will go —
on one condition.”

“What is it?”

"That you go with me and never
leave me again.”

Before she had time to reply a,
noise in the hall startled them. Jack’s
arms closed about her closely, and as
they listened a couple of blue-coats
appeared in the office outside. The
officer had kept his word.

“Better take the young lady away,
sir,” one of them advised. “There
may be a little gun play around here
presently.”

Jack longed to stay and see it
through, but Helen was trembling
and urging him to come. Again she
pulled at his coat.

“ Please , Jack!” she whispered, and
at the sound of his name on her lips
Haverly gave in. What mattered,
anyway, besides the one great fact
that she were here? He would never
lose her again, for since that stormy
day when his wrath had consumed
him for the last time, he had learned
a bitter lesson. He knew that it
could never master him again.

Outside the taxi in which Helen
had come was still standing. Haver-
ly put her into it, gave the man a
number and got in beside her. A lit-
tle later they drew up before a house.

“Why— where are we?” she asked.

“At home, girl,” he answered.

Despite the lateness of the hour
the mother was still up. She looked
up in astonishment as the two en-
tered. Then without a word she took
Helen in her arms.

“What a fine Christmas present!”
she said a moment later as she looked
up at the tall man beside her.

He laughed.

“I was afraid to let her out of my
sight,” he replied. “She is elusive.
So I just brought her with me.” Then
after a moment, “Oh, mother, be good
to my girl!”

The mother did not reply, but her
look was a promise. When she had
left them to make a place for Helen
for the night, her son turned swiftly
and crushed the woman he loved and
had lost and found again to him,
whispering against her ear the words
of love and repentance which for so
long he had yearned to say.

“You’ll forgive me, Helen, — won’t
you ?”

She remembered the words of the
doctor and her promise. But for
some reason she seemed not to need
a reminder.

“Yes, dear, of course.”

“And you won’t be — afraid of me,
will you, sweetheart? Oh, Helen,
I couldn’t do it again.”

“I am sure of it, Jack.”

He took the small cigarette case
from his pocket and held it up before
her. She gave a little cry when she
saw it.

“Why, how did you get that?” she
asked.

He told her.

She took it in her hands and softly
rubbed it.

“I had such a good time making
that,” she murmered. “I — lost it that
night, and I never thought of seeing
it again. I’m so glad you have it
after all. You won’t mind if I keep
on making things, will you dear? I
love it.”

“Mind it? I should say not. Why
should a man’s wife hide her light
under a bushel? A woman’s life is
her own to lead as she pleases, I
want you to bring out everything
beautiful that is in you, girl, — to work
out your own life in your own way.
What difference does it make to me
what you’re doing when I’m not with
you? When I find it possible to be
at home,” he finished whimsically,
“why, — I’d like your attention!”

She laughed, — a merry little laugh
which brought back the Helen of old.
Goodness knows how long they would
have kept it up had not the mother
reappeared.

‘Don’t you children know that it’s
— morning?” she chided.

Jack looked at his watch. One-
thirty.

“So it is,” he acquiesced. “Well, —
this night will never come again,
mother mine. We can afford to dissi-
pate a little. But good-night ladies,
and — Merry Christmas!”

INSIDE A ROMANCE FACTORY

just what part I was going to take
in the drama. It would be an im-
portant part, of course. Was it not
my third day as a photoplayer?
There would probably be a scene be-
tween Miss Mayo and myself. Per-
chance I might rescue her from in
front of the locomotive. Miss Mayo
and Miss Scott did not come into the
depot but remained in their taxi cab,
patiently waiting Mr. Calvert’s call.

And then finally the train came in
and stopped for some time at the
station with all the regular passen-
gers rubbering out of the windows.
I don’t know when Mr. Ainsworth
and Miss Scott got off the train, nor
I didn’t notice just when the camera
started clicking, but all of a sudden
I saw the actor and actress step off
the train and walk as naturally as
you please up to where Dick Travers
and Edna Mayo were standing by
the engine. The bunch didn’t seem
to say anything to each other — just
moved their lips, and finally Mr.
Calvert yells “out” and the camera
quits clicking. That was all there
was to it. The train starts on to-
ward Chicago and then the director
hurries our bunch of bandits on up
the railroad tracks.

It was a strip of sidetrack that Mr.
Calvert finally picked out, and under
his orders we bandits began to

( Continued from page 11)

blockade the track with a bunch of
railroad ties that were lying handy.

After we had a few ties on the
tracks, the camera started clicking
and I came to the conclusion that the
really important part of the film was
being snapped. We were about to
wreck “the flyer,” and I vigorously
tugged away at the ties. All of a
sudden I felt a crack on my bean
and I dropped my tie in a hurry.
The sheriff’s posse had arrived. At
first I was good and sore, but when
I realized it was part of a big scene
and how swell it would look on the
film I forgave all.

Our roundup by the posse was
complete and within half an hour
we were chugging back to the
studios.

They would have my picture on the
red and yellow lithographs out in
front of the "Pastime” and the “Idle
Hour” and the “Lyric” theaters in a
few weeks. Girls sitting in the dark
out in Ottumwa and down in
Paducah and up in Oshkosh would
be raving over my manly form and
soulful eyes. I had not accomplished
much the day before, true, but as a
train bandit, Ah! What mattered if
my head was a bit sore.

“Well,” I says to Mr. Calvert as we
turned onto Argyle street toward the

studio, “I guess I did pretty well
today, huh?”

“Yes, things went very well today,”
replied the director. “I think that
silhouette scene of the bandits cap-
tured by the posse is going to look
very good. You see the way it was
taken, there will be just the outline
of ypu fellows against the sky — a
faint outline that ought to be mighty
effective.”

“Silhouette — faint outline?” I
echoed aghast. “And me garbed up
like this all day and keeping the
right facial expression for hours and
getting hit on the bean. Mr. Cal-
vert,” I snapped (I didn’t care, I was
sore and I came right out without
any quibbling) “Mr. Calvert, I’m
through with the movies.”

Back inside the romance factory I
lifted my hand in waving away
fashion, when I saw Mr. Babille, the
hirer of “extras,” coming toward me
down the aisle between the dressing
rooms.

“You can put someone else in my
place tomorrow,” I calls to him in a
no-use-to-plead-with-me-tone. “I’m go-
ing into the world and become just
the best plumber or the best cigar
clerk or the best laundry wagon
driver that it is possible for me to
become. The actor bug has been
knocked out of my head.”

MOVIE PICTORIAL

THE GIRL IN THE PATHE

( Continued from page 17)

mere facade. They were starting for
the door when a hubbub was raised in
the hall. There was voluminous blas-
phemy, and a scuffle was in progress.

“Naw, I won’t!” a deep bass voice
was shouting. “No bleedin’ bobby kin
make me quit cold. 1 ain't no hand at
argument, but I’m a rotter when it
comes to me rights!” Then the scuffling
was continued. Randley hesitated.
He did not wish to become involved in
any fisticuffs just now, nor was he
going to be held as a witness if he
could help it. If the three would but
restrain themselves, they could easily
avoid any unpleasantness. He stepped
forward to slip the bolt in place, when
the door was burst open and two men

rolled into the room. One was an
officer ; the other, the red-eyed boarder.

“What’s the row?” Mumford asked
angrily, but the combatants were in
no mood to answer. Le Croix sprang
nimbly over the contestants, and
Randley and Mumford followed suit.
This should be as propitious a time as
any to escape. Little groups of men
and women were scattered around the
hall and the stairway, jabbering ex-
citedly, but the triumverate descended
the steps three at a time. The lower
hall was also crowded. Every one
was wrought up with excitement, the
cause of which Jack, Billy and Etienne
had no curiosity to fathom. At the
moment they were gaining the street,
a cab drew up the opposite curb, and

two dainty maids emerged from the
house of the sinister visage.

“To the Holland docks,” said one,
with a show of decision.

“The Girl!” Randley cried. “The
Girl in the Pathe! Hurry, Billy,
hurry!”

But an officer barred the way. Three
more officers stood nearby in readi-
ness. The cab was beginning to move
away.

“What does this mean?” Jack de-
manded angrily.

“That you remain in that building
for three weeks! There’s a smallpox
patient in there now. You and the
others are quarantined !”

(To be concluded.)

OUR WE5T-COA5T LETTER

Dear Movie Pictorial Readers:

I have had a most enjoyable few
days in sort of circulating among the
California studios, hob-nobbing and
chatting and breaking bread with our
film friends. I wish I could think of
all the inspirational news I heard, or
had the space to tell it to you. But
what I am writing concerns several
of the persons you and I love on the
screen.

So many things are transpiring at
Universal City — that magic fairy
camp up in the green hills. Little
Edna Maison was so excited about
her Chicago experiences, when she
was there with the Smalleys. Many
exhibitors insisted that she must ap-
pear in person — and she did — and it
was very thrilling to Edna, because
she had never stepped in front the
screen before in her young life. But
the cheers of the throngs warmed her
heart and made her less afraid.

Guess who had joined the Universal
forces? No one less than J. P. Mc-
Gowan, the “Helen Hazards” direc-
tor of Kalem. He is working on a big
three reeler that is full of bandits
and smuggling and ever so many
thrills. Marie Wolcamp and Frank
Newburg will be in the cast, too.
The play will be called “The Yellow
Star.”

And what do you suppose about the
“Broken Coin?” Grace Cunard and
Francis Ford have been told to in-
crease the installments from fifteen
to twenty-five. Grace is writing the
new scenarios, so she is some very
busy lady, what with plotting and
writing and acting. And right in the
midst of it, Mr. Ford has had a birth-
day! You should see the diamond
ring that Miss Cunard presented to
him — and the Chippendale Cellarette
his company gave him. Which birth-
day was it? Tut — hush on that in-
quisitive stuff.

Many big Universal things are
transpiring. Peter B. Kyne has sup-
plied the next Hobart Henley picture.
It is “The Deficit,” and that title
ought to strike home to all of us.
Mr. Henley is going to use pretty
nearly his entire wardrobe in it —
from chaps to tuxedo. “The Tenor”
has just been completed.

And Harry Edwards, the L-Ko di-
rector, has been taking on scandalous-
ly. He has been shooting flying fish.
Imagine a haughty director doing
anything like that! At any rate, he
is said to have shot one, but he didn’t
bring it home. This introduces a
new kind of fish story into the cat-
alogue of piscatorial lore!

Frank Keenan and Stella Razeto
have just completed their first feature
under Ed. J. Le Saint’s direction. It
is “The Long Chance,” and you must
see it.

I was around Inceville way, too.
They are all talking about Bessie
Barriscale’s Los Angeles popularity.
Never spring that “a prophet is with-
out honor except,” etc., because the
Angel City is Bessie Barriscale mad
— and it is a gay sort of happiness.

Los Angeles saves some of its mad-
ness, too, for little Louise Glaum who
has just completed “The Toast of
Death” at Woodley’s theater. Louise
is “a native daughter.”

Dick Stanton has his dressing room
overlooking the bay, with the entire
Inceville panorama spread before
him. This is inspirational, and if
you were ever at Inceville, you would
feel capable of a classic a day under
the same conditions.

Charles Giblin is “back home”
again after directing at the Univer-
sal, and now he is getting ready for
Billie Burke’s coming feature.

You remember Charles Clary as
Father Kelley in “The Rosary,” and
also as Lord Strathmore? Well, this
young man’s splendid talents are find-
ing new expression in “His Guiding
Angel,” that calls for a rough western
character. Mr. Clary is always equal
to the occasion.

Over at Lasky’s, they have big
things under way. Carlyle Blackwell
and Theodore Roberts are going to
give you some new happiness in “Mr.
Grex of Monte Carlo.” It is a stirring
story, and Mr. Blackwell first con-
ceived the idea when he was with
the Favorite Players. But, Mr. Grex
waited, and he is much better for the
wait.

Maybe you didn’t know that Tom
Forman of Lasky’s is a scenario
writer. Well, that’s the way he got
started. When things were coming
rather tough for Tom, and he had
applied for work, the director in-
formed him that a scenario was the
thing they wish most — and the next
morning Tom exchanged one for a
fat check. Necessity made him an
author.

Beautiful little Helen Holmes has
been having some new hazards — and
you’ll feel sorry for her, too, because
it was her pluck that was largely re-
sponsible. Pneumonia caught her,
but she said her friends, the public,
must be cared for, and she went to
the studio — and then the severe at-
tack came, and now Helen’s mother
is at the hospital, trying to make her
little girl forget her delirious ravings
that are all centered around railway
wrecks and endless labor.

Everybody who knows Henry B.
Walthall is wondering how his Chi-
cago friends ever induced him to make
a speech. But he did. It was for
charity, and that explains it. Henry
is averse to public speaking, but this
time he spoke briefly, and what he
said went home.

The American studios arc just as
busy as ever. There is always some-
thing moving around the American.
Anna Little has just joined the Santa
Barbara Company, and drove her car
over the pass, preferring the motor
trip to the steam cars. And it is
likely that Dick La Reno will join
her. Leastwise, he is on hand.

Webster Campbell is leaving the
American, and deserting the “Beauty”
brand. He says he is done with com-

edy, but his friends are sorry indeed
to see him go.

You should see Harold Lockwood
in his new King-Eight, clad in white
flannels, and making all the girls
wish he would be more sociable, and
take a partner on his trip. But —
Harold does very well by his lonely,
thanks.

Henry Otto is back on the job. For
a time Henry had no end of physical
ills, but he pinned his faith to elec-
tricity, and whether it was the elec-
trical treatment or the faith, he has
his company together — and it is cer-
tainly a worthy company. In it are
Winnifred Greenwood, Eddie Coxen
and George Field.

William D. Taylor, producer of
“The Diamond From the Sky,” is ad-
mittedly one of the best paid direc-
tors in America. But why shouldn’t
he be? He merits all of it.

Look for little May Allison in “The
Man in the Sombrero,” a forthcoming
American two-reeler. It is comedy-
drama, and the plot turns on the pic-
torial advertising of a hat. Incident-
ally, Miss Allison is in love with the
Santa Barbara bungalow, and with
Santa Barbarians generally.

The Reliance-Majestic, Mr. Griffith’s
studio, is producing some exception-
ally good new features. John O’Brien
is working on “The Scarlet Band,”
in which John Emerson is starring.
The cast is up to the customary Grif-
fith standard.

Myrtle Stedman, who is playing
“Lucy,” recently met an actress who
had played the part in Australia and
Africa, where the footlights were
sometimes kerosene lamps, and where
candles played the part of illumina-
tion. And this actress praised Miss
Stedman’s interpretation, too.

Anne Shaefer, the Vitagraph idol,
is always doing something kind and
good — ever aiding charity or some
other worthy cause. Her disposition
is on a par with her acting. She
stars in both directions.

Here’s a Vitagraph record: Rol-

lin Sturgeon, producer, a camera man
and George Holt, arrived at Mojave,
on the edge of the desert one night at
11:00, arose the next morning at
4:00, rode fifteen miles into the
desert, took numerous pictures, got
silhouette effects at sundown, arrived
home half ill. Mr. Sturgeon started
for Santa Monica in the early even-
ing, drove 140 miles, arrived at 3:30,
bathed, ate and was on the job again
in the morning.

Maybe you would never think that
Pauline Bush was a delicate girl.
But she was. It took lots of out-door
life and careful living and strong de-
termination, but Pauline came out
winner; she conquered her ills. And
today she is one of the most lovable
stars of the screen.

Sincerely yours.

Send Only 10<t

I rotfJTrial Bolile

jji ' P- > ty-Ki {Ml

You have never seen
anything like this before

A new, original perfume extremely
lasting: the fragrance of thousands
of blossoms combined in Rieger's
new creation

“Garden Queen”

For a limited time send 1 Oc silver
or stamps for a regular 2 5c trial
bottle. Carden (Jueen is but one of
the exquisite line of

Trad« MarkRrqisitml

fTowerT^fops

_ Other odors: "Mon Amour." Rose.

Exact Size 25c Bottle Violet. Lily of the Valley, Lilac.
Exact S.ze 25c Botti# rrabani>le _ all $1-00 an ounC e. at

dealers or by mail. Trial liottle. 25c. Send stamps.

( currency, money order. Money back if not pleased.

I Send $1.00 Souvenir box— 6 odors. 25c bottles.

) PAUL RIEGER, 211 First Street, San Francisco, Cal.

raent

Ware Guaranteed Diamond Rintra, —
Styles. Brilliant, perfect-out diamonds..
Money back 30 days if wanted. Senaa-

u,>nl 17 Jewel ELGIN, $12.50;

Regular $18 value. Guaranteed Elst
Movement— 25-year Case. Engraving
FREE. World's greatest watch bargain
FREE Catalog— *>4 nngeH--astound)"u
jewelry, silverware bargains on FREE
TRIAL. Address:

ALFRED WARE COMPANY
Dept 459 St. LouU Mo *

JO ELGIN

LEARN RIGHT AT HOME BY MAIL

DRAWING-PAINTING

Correspondence course in Drawing, Painting,
Illustrat ng anti Cartooning. Learn for Profit
or pleasure. We can develop your talent.
This school lias taught thousands. Free
Scholarship Award. Write today for full ex-
planation and our handsome illustrated Art
Annual.

FINE ARTS INSTITUTE, Studio 356, OMAHA, NEB.

220 LESSONS

FILM ACTING

BY 10 GREAT STARS

A place in theMovie3 for talent, ambition •
i grit! Fame, money, travel the reward ! Study
at Iiohh — NOW — FREE! These 220
Free Lessons cover all branches of Film
» Acting A’ t These 10 GREAT STARS <
include America's most popular film
actor, and nine other stars, who point
the road to Sc~ecn Success. Semi no
__ money. Simply write for

“A Message From the Stars ”

FREE! — A POSTAL BRINGS IT — FREE!

Return mall carries it I You’ll be de-
lighted — astounded — when you learn the
identity of these I O STARS! To win. you
must ask NOW! Address .

FILM INDUSTRIES

1021 Hartford Bldg., CHICAGO, ILL.

FREE

HAVE YOU READ

PHOTOPLAY SCENARIO

The little magazine with a
big mission — for those interested
in writing photoplays.

rprr f send for sample copy
I IXEiE, . LEARN THE OPPORTUNITIES

PHOTOPLAY SCENARIO

Hartford Building CHICAGO, ILL.

26

MOVIE PICTORIAL

Margery Moore’s

BEAUTY CORNER

BEAUTY— THE MAGIC MIRROR OF WOMAN WHEREIN MAN
SEES REFLECTED THE IDEALS OF HIS OWN CONJURING

Nature’s Beauty Doctor — the Mind

I am convinced that many women have remained beautiful well into late
life, by the force of their determination. They refused to grow old.

Contrast this, good sisters, with the fretful, fuming habit of thought that
brings the gray ash of decline into the lives of many women who should
still be enjoying the heyday of their youth.

Mind is the cunning magician that works from within, that molds and
fashions and controls what ofttimes the most cleverly devised cosmetics can
never reach. For beauty must begin within, and radiate outward — or it is
not beauty, but, at best, merely the semblance of beauty.

Milady has within herself the power of prolonged youth — the well-spring
of continued loveliness — if she but will use what is within her grasp. The
Mind is the thing— the molder of thought and of body, which should be but
an expression of thought.

To long for beauty is one thing, but to command it is quite another,
and the command is of the mind, while the longing may be but a shadow
that is fleeting in its passage before the mental screen.

The beauty doctor may help — may bring to your service many things
that will work hand-in-hand with nature — but no one can give you a tenth as
much as you may insure yourself.

Think beauty— and youthfulness— and attractiveness. Make it part of
your cult. Hold it before yourself day after day — until you have finally
come to reflect this thought— and your features are aglow with the beauty
of your mind.

You say it is impossible? It is as you will. Impossibility is a barrier
that we construct to meet our willing decline. So long as we believe that
there are experts who can bring us back from the cold evening of unloveli-
ness, we must accept what they can do for us. But if we believe that-we have
within us the basic force of beauty — if we believe that our minds shaped
us in a finer mold in the beginning— why should we not make the demand
of beauty one of our most persistent processes of thought?

You — every woman — longs for the mystic power to stay the progress of
the years. Time you can not hold, but beauty you may prolong, provided the
while you do not place upon your body undue taxation through unhealthful
methods of living.

W ithin your mind there is the dictator that governs your body, and if
this power is sufficient to control your corporeal operations why should it
not aid you in the attainment and the prolongation of genuine feminine
loveliness? Try it — now and continuously — and watch results'

Answers to Correspondents

S. M.

Your letter is very interesting and
I don’t blame you to want to rid your-
self of blackheads. They are very
unsightly and can be eliminated if
one is persistent. In the first place
you must cleanse the skin thoroughly
each night. First wash the face with
tepid water and a pure Castile soap.
Rinse thoroughly in clear water and
dry. Then apply a good cleansing
cream and allow to remain on a few
minutes. Wipe off with a soft cloth
and apply Acne Cream freely. Allow
the Acne Cream to remain on all
night. Repeat the cleansing process
in the morning. Wipe off and apply
a pure powder. If you will send me a
self-addressed stamped envelope I
will advise you what creams and pow-
der to use as it is very essential that
these preparations be absolutely pure.

J. B.

No! A thousand times no! Never

take drugs to reduce your flesh. Stop
eating all fatty foods and sweets.
Take exercise in the open air and
practice deep breathing and your fat
will leave.

Edith.

The lump in your throat may be
goiter. You should consult a physi-
cian before attempting to get rid of
it by massage. If you will send me a
self addressed stamped envelope I will
advise you what to use for freckles. I
can not recommend any particular
preparations through this column
but will be glad to advise you pri-
vately as to creams and powders
that are pure and harmless.

A. G.

See my answer to J. B. in this col-
umn. Any drug that will reduce your
flesh is harmful to your entire system
and I know personally of two or three
women who died from the effects of
such drugs.

If you want advice on beauty topics, write to Margery Moore. She will be
glad to answer all questions. If a personal answer is desired, stamped and
self-addressed envelope should be enclosed. Address communications to
Margery Moore, Care Movie Pictorial, Chicago, 111.

THE SPLIT REEL

Rubyiat of a Censor

Last night my gang and I made merry
right.

At 4 x. m., I was a hully fright.

And now I’m on the job again —
oh, well,

I’ll single out a feature for a fight.

You see, I am the Law, I am some
guy.

How I delight to watch the feathers

fly.

And when my liver’s purple, then
beware.

For films I have an awful nasty eye!

This scene, I understand, required
much cash,

It’s tame, I guess, but I must call
it rash,

How I love to destroy what others
build.

Say, watch ’em cut it to a fleeting
flash!

Poor nuts, they slave and moil and
slave some more,

And build up crises bravely by the
score.

And I — the Law — the Film God!
— Here I smile;

I love to see 'em squirm and know
they’re sore!

Oh - YOU—ROSCOE!

Dear Fatta da Arbuck:

Me’n Guiseppe seen you in da
swella da feelm — um, so fine! You
granda da greata da man. Only,
Fatta, please don’t maka da close-up
— um, so beeg! It look too much lika
dadamma da Zep! Yours,

Pedro.

Me-lo-dra-ma!

Oh, see thee no-bul vic-toe-ree!

The hee-ro conk-ers vice —

He saves thee lov-lee he-ro-wine,

And does it in a thrice!

Where-e’er he go-eth, sin fades out.
And vir-choo takes thee throne —
The dev-vil sure-lee takes the count,
Ex-kuse me while I groan!

S-s-h — Gish!

I wish I were a wisher
What could always get my wish!

Do you know what I’d wish about?
About the Sisters Gish!

I’d wish for Lilyan an’ for Dot —
So do not answer, "Tish!”

I wish I were a wisher
What could wish me near Miss Gish!

Last night those absinthe frappes had
a kick,

My head is splitting — I am really sick,

But now my vandal spirit may
enjoy

This bliss supreme, this amputating
trick !

In all my life, I’ve ne’er evolved a
thing.

Yet in my soul a demon voice does
sing,

Exultant at my power to slash
and chop

And spoil a plot and treat art to my
sting!

Some day the Vox-Pop wave will blot
me out.

But while I’m here, I’m going to have
my shout —

I have my reasons and all that,
pray note,

But bless me if I know what I’m
about!

Where has the Universal anything
on the rest of us? Who hasn’t
starred in “The Broken Coin” — huh?

Anyway, the Goddess got off the
job before cold weather caught up
with her! In other words, she fin-
ished before the clothes of the sea-
son!

Seven Second Split-Reels
“ THE EXPOSE ”

Reel 1 — Pierpont is on his knees to
Prunella. She registers dis-
gust, and pointing to the ap-
proaching Count Emout, sig-
nifies that she prefers him
because of his immaculate
linen. Calls Pierpont’s atten-
tion to Count’s gleaming shirt
bosom.

Reel 2 — Pierpont registers a big idea.

Offers Count light for his
cigarette. Count reaches for
it. Pierpont drops it, as if
by accident, upon the Count’s
shirt bosom. Explosion, gleam
of red flannel beneath shirt
bosom. Count flees.

Reel 3 — Pierpont registers joy. “I
thought it was celluloid all
the time!” he exclaims.

HARVEY PEAKE,

New Albany, Ind.

“ THE SUPPORTER ”
Reel 1 — Wedding ceremony.

Every girl thinks it’s “the diamond
from the sky” — first time. After that,
it's a cobble-stone.

The chief objection to boots that
lace up the back, and rolled down
hosiery, is that they break into the
plot with close-ups.

Here’s hopin’ it’s an eternal trian-
gle:

I nee

Griffith Sennett

Marguerite — S. O. S.H

Say, Marguerite Clark, we like your
style.

Your winning ways are cute —
You don’t know how we love your
smile.

Say Marguerite, it’s a beaut.

Say, you’re not married, tied for life,
All harnessed to a mate?

Oh. say not so, that you’re a wife!

Alas, are we too late?

Or, are you single, are you free?

You see, we’re anxious, true,

Just pass the word along or we
Can’t tell our wife — oh, do!

Reel 2 — Exit music begins. Bride and
and Groom turn from altar
and begin to march slowly
down the aisle. Groom glances
down to floor and registers
horror! Bride looks at new
husband, sees horror, looks
for cause and finds it. She
registers hideous amazement.
Audience follows eyes of un-
happy couple and fixes gaze
upon Groom’s feet. Men
climb upon backs of seats in
order to see, and women fight
for good views. They regis-
ter surprise. Best man saves
situation. With quick ges-
tures he stoops and unfastens
long, white elastic supporter
that is trailing conspicuously
over the dark carpet behind
the groom’s left foot.

HARVEY PEAKE,

New Albany, Ind.

IL..._ ' 1QBH ADVANCE OF THE GRAND ARMY . C*S 1 : _ . .' £

N APOLEON’S name fills more pages in the world’s solemn history than that of any other mortal.

The advance of his Grand Army into Russia is the turning point of his career, and marks the beginning of his downfall. Today mighty
armies are again advancing over the same battlefields where Napoleon fought a hundred years ago. The picture shown herewith from
Ridpath’s History marks but one event out of thousands which are fully described and illustrated in the world-famed publication.

Ridpath’s History of the World

We will mail a beautiful 46-page booklet of sample pages to all readers interested in our offer who mail us the
coupon below. Hundreds have already availed themselves of our special offer. We have shipped this splendid set
of books to delighted readers living in every state in the union, and every purchaser is more than satisfied. We are
closing out the few remaining sets of the last edition, brand new, down to date, beautifully bound in half morocco.

NEVER AGAIN SUCH A BOOK BARGAIN AS THIS!

We will name our price and easy terms only in direct letters to those sending the Coupon below. Tear off the Coupon, write name and
address plainly and mail now before you forget it. Dr. Ridpath is dead, his work is done, but his widow derives her support from his History

and to print our price broadcast for the sake of more quicklyselling these setswould cause great injury to future sales. Send coupon today.

European War

If you would know
the underlying causes
which have led up to
this great conflict,-

HISTORY

OF THE

WORLD

Ridpath

HISTORY HISTORY

OF THE OF THE

WORLD WORLD

Ridpath Ridpath

HISTORY

OF THE

WORLD

Ridpath

HISTORY

OF THE

WORLD

Ridpath

HISTORY

OF THE

WORLD

Rid path

HISTORY

OF THE

WORLD

Ridpath

HISTORY

OF THE

WORLD

Ridpath

HISTORY

OF THE

WORLD

Ridpath

VOL. a

THE CLOSE OF
7 HE NINETEENTH

AND DAWN OF

T HE TWENTIETH

CENTURY

Six Thousand Y ears of History

DIDPATH’S throws the mantle of personality over the old heroes
^ of history. Alexander is there; patriot, warrior, statesman,
diplomat, crowning the glory of Grecian history. Xerxes, from his mountain
platform, sees Themistocles with three hundred and fifty Greek ships smash his
Persian fleet of over a thousand sail, and help to mould the language in which
this paragraph is written. Rome perches Nero upon the greatest throne on
earth, and so sets up a poor madman’s name to stand for countless centuries as a
synonym of savage cruelty; Napoleon fights Waterloo again under your very eyes
and reels before the iron fact that at last the end of his gilded dream has come.
Bismarck is there, gruff, overbearing, a giant pugilist in the diplomatic ring,
laughingwith grim disdain at Prance, which says, “You shall not.” Washington
is there, “four-square to all the winds,” grave, thoughtful, proof against the
wiles of British strategy and the poisoned darts of false friends; clear-seeing
over the heads of his fellow-countrymen, and on into another century, the most
colossal world-figure of his time. Mail the coupon for full information.

The Beautiful 46-Page Booklet is Free

Endorsed by Thousands

From Thousands of Testimonials
We Print the Following:

President McKinley said:

“I am familiar with the merits
of Ridpath’s History of theW orld,

and cordially commend it to the scholar
as well as to the people generally.”

William J. Bryan said:

“Dr. Ridpath’s History of the
World is a lasting monument to
the author’s intelligence and indus-
try. Itis thorough and comprehensive.”

Bishop Vincent said:

“Ridpath’s History is in clear
and agreeable style, comprehen-
sive in treatment, readable type and
admirable illustrations. This set of
books is a permanent college chair
of general history in one’s own house.”

Leslie’s Weekly says:

•‘Ridpath is the ablest of Ameri-
can historians. He combines a
beautiful literary style with won-
derful accuracy and completeness.
His great History of the World is a
library in itself. There is no better set
of books to place in the hands of youth
than this notable work.”

Review of Reviews says:

“Ridpath is America’s greatest
historian. He has singular breadth
of view and sanity of judgment.”

Nine Beautiful
Royal Octavo
Volumes

de e p radi^ 1 a „ ti

thies, the mutual jealousies
the commercial rivalries the
sWw . °Y Past defeats ' the
vaulting ambitions for world
Empire, then you should buy

Ridpath’s History
of the World '

4.000 double
column pages

2.000 superb^^^j
illustra- StS'j

1 tions / v/ 9
15

FREE
COUPON

Ridpath’s Graphic Style

THE reason for Dr. Ridpath’s enviable position
* as an historian is his wonderfully beautiful /$y N Western
style, a style no other historian in any generation /y AstociTtfon
has ever equaled. He pictures the great historical XH E SEVER Pre.ident
events as though they were happening before your /§/ 140 So.De^omSt., Chicago
eyes; he carries you with him to see the battles A. / Please mail without
of old; to meet kings and queens and warriors; cost to me, 46-page book-

. . , I , v r~» Z 1 . , . ’ /> w/ let of sample pages from

to sit in th© Roman s©nat© ? to march against Riiipath’s History of

£-«_ !_•_ i * i «• n the World, containing

f photogravures of Napoleon,
Caesar nnd other great charac-
W/ ters in history, and write me full i
X particulars of your special offer to |
Mo

Saladin and his dark-skinned followers; to
sail the southern seas with Drake ; to circum-
navigate the globe with Magellan. He com-
bines absorbing interest with supreme reli- /iv ,

ability and makes the heroes of history real fS?" Movie Pictorial readers,
living men and women, and about them ' 1

he weaves the rise and fall of empires in
such a fascinating style that history Xq’
as absorbingly interesting

NAME.

becomes
as the greatest of fiction.

ADDRESS.

Movie Pictorial

TTTE HENNEBBRRY COMPANY PRINTERS, CHICAGO

A Vision of
the Vineyard

_y

With the Better Flavor

Sunny skies, autumn foliage, breezes fresh with the fragrance of ripened fruit, vines
laden with clusters of purple grapes — that is the vision suggested as you sip Red
Wing — the unfermented, unadulterated, unchanged juice from the first crush of
select grapes grown in the famous Concord belt.

When you buy Grape Juice, ask for Red Wing — insist on the brand that insures the utmost in purity, quality
and grapey flavor. Write for free booklet containing recipes for many dainty grape delicacies that delight both
guests and home folks. It’s free.

PURITAN FOOD PRODUCTS CO., Inc., FREDONIA, N. Y.

Scanned from the collection of

Marc Wanamaker / Bison Archives

Coordinated by the
Media History Digital Library
www. mediahistoryproj ect.org